


in the eye of a hurricane (there is quiet, for just a moment)

by StrayxMonarch



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: (amongst others), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, I hope y'all are prepared for ALL THE TROPES bc apparently I am literal trash for cliche, Like complete and utter trash, Mutual Pining, PS don't ask me were this story fits in the timeline, Sharing a Bed, Things to look forward to:, Totally flirting but pretending not to, and DIY home improvement, and then... this happened, bc YOU GON' LEARN, but honestly I when I started all I wanted was a little oneshot about Frank fearing for Karen's life, idk don't ask me questions, maybe a little before the Lewis/elevator thing, or even instead of it, piles of angst, seriously if you ever wanted to know how to fix a busted-in door then today is your lucky day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrayxMonarch/pseuds/StrayxMonarch
Summary: When a misunderstanding leads Frank to bust into Karen's apartment to rescue her from a non-existent threat, the only thing more broken than her door is the man who burst through it. And so, together, they pick up the pieces.Title is from the Hamilton song 'Hurricane'.





	1. Chapter 1

Karen.

 

Jesus fuck, _Karen_.

 

Her name burned in his mind the way his breath burned in his chest, and all he could think was that he was too late.

 

Again, he was too fucking late.

 

Her screams played over and over in his head as he raced across the city, the sound distorting and blending into another scream, another time, another hole blasted through his life.

 

_I heard it, and I did nothing_.

 

He wouldn’t let that happen again.

 

He couldn’t.

  
He’d had all the fastest routes to her apartment memorized for months, but even an all-American muscle car couldn’t escape the crawling pace of Manhattan streets, making him feel like he was moving in slow motion. Still, he pushed the limits, weaving through traffic, the roar of the engine drowning out the stream of curses that flooded from his mouth.

  
It felt like years had passed from the moment he’d left Lieberman’s stunned face in his dust to the moment he swerved into the alley behind her apartment building, plowing through a couple of trash cans on the way and giving exactly zero shits. He screeched the car to a stop beneath her fire escape, then threw open the door and threw himself out of it. He didn’t waste time with the key or the door, didn’t even bother to turn the car off. If someone wanted it, they could have it.

 

He could always jack another car, but there wasn’t another Karen.

 

His boots left dark marks on the car’s hood as he ran up it like a ramp, the roof dipping slightly under his weight as he leapt from it to the lowest rung of the fire escape, his shoulder joints straining as the ladder abruptly dropped with his weight, jarring to a halt just behind the car’s tail lights. It didn’t slow him down, though; he was already climbing, powering up the ladder and pounding across the landing to start the next set, the metal vibrating underneath him.

 

Only two floors to go, and it felt like a thousand.

 

Finally, finally, he reached the window to her floor, sweat burning his eyes as he braced himself against the rail behind him and kicked out the glass, panic and exertion wrapping around his chest like a vise, his breathing shallow. Protruding shards of glass missed his face by a fraction of an inch as he swung his body through the window and hit the ground running, sprinting around the corner of the hallway--

 

And then suddenly her door was right there ahead of him, sharp pain instantly radiating from ankle to knee as he kicked it in hard, bursting through with her name already on his lips.

 

###

 

She was bent in half, pulling a pair of socks from a drawer and humming mindlessly, when she heard her front door explode inwards.

 

_Oh, fuck, no_ \-- was all she had time to think, her body already scrambling for cover when an all-too-familiar voice bellowed her name, making her freeze.

 

For a split second, she was light-headed with relief, until her mind caught up and a different kind of fear set in.

 

Because she recognized the emotion in Frank’s voice.

 

_Terror_.

 

“Karen!” he roared again, and she stumbled towards it, towards him, almost bruising her shoulder against her bedroom door as she shoved it open, bursting out into the living room to find him barely two yards away with his gun pointed directly at her chest.

 

“Frank?!” she blurted out, eyes falling to his gun, which automatically lowered to his side, already protecting her before his mind even caught up.

 

He was uninjured; that was the first thing she could process.

 

The second was that he was looking at her like she was a ghost.

 

She took a step forward, automatically reaching for him, but he reflexively stepped back, his hands literally shaking as he switched on the safety and ejected the mag, setting both down on the closest flat surface. Letting out a shuddering breath, he backed himself up against the wall, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes.

 

“Jesus,” he muttered, so quietly she had to strain to hear it, his voice as unsteady as the rest of him. “You’re okay.”

 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she confirmed softly, ignoring the thundering of her heart as she slowly crossed the floor to where he stood. She didn’t understand anything beyond the fact that the unflinching Frank Castle was currently shaking like leaf, and she didn’t need to. Taking a breath, she slowly reached for him, her fingers resting gently against his cheek.

 

“I’m here, Frank. I’m okay.”

 

He was still breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, but for a moment he seemed to lean into her touch, just a little, like he needed that connection, needed _her--_

 

And then he drew back, giving his head a small shake, and she could literally feel him withdrawing-- not just physically, but emotionally as well, locking himself away.

 

“Sorry about your door. I’ll bring stuff to fix it in the morning,” he rasped finally, trying to edge away from her. “Sorry, Karen.”

 

“I don’t care about the door, Frank,” she murmured, her hands reaching out to catch hold of his, her grip gentle but firm, anchoring him to her. As she looked at his haggard face, she could feel just how true the words were; she couldn’t give a shit about her door, about her apartment, about anything.

 

She just cared about him.

 

Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she tightened her grip just a fraction, her voice soft.

 

“Come here.”

 

With a gentle tug, she drew him over to the couch-- and he didn’t resist, just followed silently behind her like there was no fight left in him. To see Frank Castle without that fire inside him frightened her more than anything else about him ever had. Releasing his hands, she placed hers gently on his shoulders, pressing him down onto the couch. Before she could step away to give him some breathing room, though, his hands were suddenly at her waist, almost yanking her to him, a small squeak escaping her throat as she landed squarely in his lap. Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he buried his face in her neck, and for a couple of shellshocked seconds she was frozen, too stunned to react.

 

Once her brain rebooted a moment later, she let out a shaky breath and willed her body to relax, reorienting herself slightly so she could curl an arm around his shaking shoulders, her other hand lifting to stroke soothingly through the short strands of his hair, her heart breaking for him.

 

She could feel his fingers clenched in her shirt over her shoulderblade, his other hand pressed tight against her thigh, his breath hot against her sternum. She couldn’t deny the thrills it sent over her skin-- she was a human woman, okay, not a goddamn robot-- but she ignored them, focusing only on what he needed.

 

Which, right now, was her. Not her legal support or her investigative skills, or her car or money or a place to stay.

 

Frank needed _her_.

 

And so she just took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and held him.

 

Time passed; exactly how much, she didn’t know or care. All she cared about was that his shaking had finally eased, his breaths coming slower and more evenly, his hold on her a little less desperate. She was still stroking his hair; whether for his benefit or her own, she wasn’t really sure, but-- if she was honest with herself-- she knew she could happily stay right here like this for hours.

 

Frank, of course, was another story.

 

Eventually, she felt his fingers loosen their grip, and missed the pressure immediately.

 

“I should go,” he muttered hoarsely, his face leaving the crook of her neck to turn away from her.

 

“No, you shouldn’t,” she answered simply, not bothering to shift from her place in his lap.

 

“Karen,” he began, his tone all too familiar, but this time she wasn’t backing down.

 

“Frank,” she countered dryly, drawing out his name, then reached out, smoothing her palm over his faintly stubbled cheek before pressing it firmly against his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “I’m not asking.”

 

His eyes finally met hers, and she held his gaze unwaveringly, letting him see that she wasn’t going to let this go. Wasn’t going to let _him_ go.

 

For a long moment, he just looked at her, his reddened eyes seeing far deeper than anyone else ever had. Then, finally, he gave just the barest nod, and she smiled.

 

“Okay. Good,” she said, the sudden lightness in her chest making the words a little breathy, her hand leaving his cheek to run through her own hair as she looked around the apartment, thinking. “Now, what do you need? Food? Shower?”

 

Her eyes returned to his face as she awaited his answer, and he hesitated for a second before looking away, and she knew him well enough to know what it meant.

 

“Both, okay,” she supplied with a grin, then tilted her head. “I’ve got some leftovers, how about you head to the shower while I heat them up?”

 

He nodded again, a tiny jerk of the head, and then he very deliberately released her, his movements almost mechanical, as if to erase the fact that he’d just been clinging to her for dear life. Recognizing her cue, she shifted reluctantly from his lap and got to her feet, looking back down at him for a moment before forcing herself to turn away, crossing over to the linen cupboard and pulling out her biggest towel before tossing it to him.

 

“Let me know if you need anything,” she told him, gesturing vaguely towards the bathroom, and there wasn’t anything sexual in the offer. There really wasn’t.

 

Well, maybe just a tiny bit.

 

Fingers clenching around the towel, he glanced back toward her front door. “The door--”

 

“I’ll sort something out,” she said simply, interrupting him. “Go.”

 

After another moment, he relented, nodding and standing from the couch, and as the bathroom door shut behind him she resolutely tried not to think about anything that was about to happen behind it. Instead, she followed through on her assurance and headed for the front door, standing before it for a moment and contemplating the splintered door jamb.

 

Honestly, deep down she kinda liked knowing that nothing could get in his way if he wanted to get to her.

 

Easing the door shut-- it was a little crooked, and wouldn’t latch properly, but hey, it was something-- she hooked the chain and then stepped back, frowning thoughtfully at the result. Turning, she cast her eyes around, then grabbed the wooden table from the entryway and heaved it over, shoving it up against the door. It wouldn’t stand up to any real amount of force, but at least it made the door stay flush with the wall, giving the outward appearance that it was securely locked.

 

And regardless, anyone who might want to get in would have to deal with Frank Castle before they ever got anywhere near her, so she wasn’t concerned. In fact, when she thought about it, she actually felt safer right now than any amount of deadlocks ever could have made her.

 

Satisfied, she headed into the kitchen, pulling the container of leftover pasta out of the fridge and dividing it up into a couple of bowls, trying not to listen to the splashing of water coming from the bathroom.

 

She was just pulling the second bowl from the microwave when he emerged, fully dressed but with damp hair and shiny skin, and damn if she wasn’t hungry in a whole new way just now. He looked up at her almost shyly, then ventured a little closer before suddenly stopping in his tracks, uttering a quiet _“_ _shit_ _”_.

 

She froze mid-action, instantly concerned. “What?”

 

“Lieberman,” he said by way of explanation, swiftly crossing her living room to the window where she would put the flowers-- _his_ flowers-- then leaned close to the glass and aimed an awkward little wave up at the sky. “He’s probably having a major fit by now.”

 

When he turned back, he must have caught her confused expression, because for a moment he actually looked sheepish. “Uh, there’s a camera on the window. So I could see your flowers.”

 

She took a moment to process that, staring at the window before glancing around the apartment.  “Are there cameras in here?”

 

“No,” he answered immediately, the response so swift and certain that she didn’t hesitate to believe it. Stepping a little closer to the kitchen-- to her-- he looked over at the flowers that she so carefully tended, his voice lowering, turning apologetic.

 

“I put a mic in the flowers, but I didn’t wanna be spying on you, so it only picks up stuff that’s really loud,” he admitted, then a hint of something almost like pride entered his voice as he added, “Figured if you were ever really in trouble, you wouldn’t go quietly.”

 

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the warmth in his eyes vanished, his expression turning flat and unreadable, his voice suddenly rough as he looked away. “That’s why I came. When I heard you scream…”

 

He trailed off, staring into space with that haunted look she knew so well, and in the silence she heard the words that he didn’t say, her mind finishing the sentence for him. _My name._ He hadn’t just heard her cry out; he’d heard her scream his name, a broken, tortured sound filled with terror and anguish, tearing from her throat like it was the last thing she would ever say.

 

Seemingly shaking himself out of his own reverie, he went on, pulling her back to the present with him. “And then I heard something crash, and I thought--”

 

“I had a nightmare,” she told him quietly, her eyes unable to meet his, instead focusing on her hands where they rested on the kitchen counter. “I took a nap on the couch after work, and the nightmare woke me. The crash was me knocking a vase off the end table.”

 

Even from the edge of her vision, she could see him turn to look at the now-empty end table, working it all through in his head.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, embarrassed by the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. “The nightmares aren’t usually like that.”

 

Usually, they involved waking with a wet pillow and silent sobs already wracking her chest, the image of his dull, lifeless eyes seared into her eyelids for hours afterwards.

 

But she would never tell him that. She’d never wanted him to know at all.  

 

“Hey,” he said gently, moving closer until only the counter separated them. “You don’t need to apologize, alright? Not to me.”

 

Blinking hard, she nodded, then pushed one of the bowls toward him. “Here.”

 

He accepted the fork she handed him with a quiet thanks, his fingers brushing over hers for the briefest moment, then obediently went and sat when she directed him to the tiny table in the corner.

 

“Drink?” she called over her shoulder, using the fridge door as cover to swipe at her eyes.

 

“Please.”

 

Grabbing two beers, she popped the tops, then took a long swig of hers before joining him, feeling steadier again. For a minute they simply ate in silence, then she drew a breath, voicing the question that hovered permanently at the back of her mind.

 

“So how is it all going?”

 

Seemingly unsurprised by the question, he gave a jerky shrug, eyes sticking to his food.

 

“Making progress. Madani’s been on my ass though. She’s something, that one-- like a damn dog with a bone.”

 

Unwittingly, her eyes lifted to his face, searching, trying to understand exactly what she’d just heard in his tone. Looking back down at her own food, she toyed with her fork.

 

“Yeah?” she asked lightly, then before she could stop herself, “Sounds like you kind of admire her.”

 

“I kinda do,” Frank admitted with a small huff, then paused, considered, and lifted one shoulder in an almost-shrug. “She’s about justice. Gotta respect that.”

 

She hummed in reluctant agreement, focusing on her food so she wouldn’t have to think about the unpleasant-- and completely _ridiculous--_ sensation that seemed to be settling in her stomach.

 

“Otherwise things are going alright,” he continued between bites, oblivious. “Though Lieberman’s had a real stick up his ass these last few days.”

 

“How come?” she asked quickly, eagerly reaching for safer ground.

 

Only for it to fall away beneath her.

 

“Ah, he’s just pissed because his wife kissed me,” Frank answered blithely, and she nearly choked on her pasta, her head shooting up, wide eyes meeting his.

 

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

 

Still chewing, he nodded, then gestured a little with his fork. “I’ve been checking in on his family for a few weeks. Firstly for leverage, right, but then because he asked me to. Sarah and I, we kinda get each other, you know? Dead spouses and all. Anyway, she was just drunk, and…”

 

With a light shrug, he trailed off, his attention already back on his food.

 

“And?” she prompted, tiny echoes of _Sarah and I, we get each other_ repeating on a loop in her head.

 

“She kissed me, and I backed off,” he said simply, as if there had genuinely been no other possible outcome to that scenario. “Then I went back to my place and had to deal with Lieberman getting blackout drunk over it.”

 

She blinked. “You told him?”

 

“Didn’t have to. He has cameras and mics all through his house. He was already halfway into a bottle by the time I got back.”

 

Eyes down, she spoke softly. “What would you have done if he wasn’t watching?”

 

This time it was his turn to blink, as if her question had just turned on a light inside his head and brought everything into focus. She saw him lower his fork, his shoulders squaring as he straightened in his seat.

 

“The exact same thing,” he answered plainly, then added carefully, “I already told Lieberman, I don’t want his wife.”

 

Her eyes flicked involuntarily to his, finding him watching her intently, the silence stretching between them until finally his mouth twitched slightly and he switched his attention to his bowl, freeing her from his gaze.

 

“Good pasta. Didn’t know you were a cook.”

 

Swallowing hard, she seized the topic change, answering without really thinking. “Yeah. My parents were pretty insistent that Kevin and I should be able to cook. He was always so much better at it than me, though-- had a love for it that I never did. Mostly I cook to feel close to him.”

 

Fork pausing in midair, he glanced up at her, head tilted slightly as he looked her over, and she flushed again at the gentleness in his eyes, the warmth that was far too close to genuine tenderness for her to deal with right now.

 

“Anyway, these are just easy leftovers,” she added hastily, avoiding his gaze. “If you come around another time, I’ll make you something more impressive.”

 

For a moment he continued to regard her silently, and she was certain he would turn her down, telling her it was for her safety, or whatever. But instead, he gave a small nod.

 

“I like the sound of that.”

 

Surprised and pleased, she dug back into her pasta to keep her smile from betraying her. After six months without him, she’d take any chance she could get to have him around; especially since somehow, he was the only one who really _got_ her, more than Matt, or Foggy, or Ellis. He understood her like only Kevin had, and she’d found that when he was gone she felt somehow off-balance, disconnected from everything, like she no longer fit into the world around her.

 

She’d felt the same when Kevin died, and though the feeling had faded over the years, it had never completely gone away. And now every time Frank left, the feeling grew again, until it was starting to feel like her new normal once more.

 

She tried not to think about the fact that, one way or another, he _was_ going to disappear from her life again. There was no use fighting it; it was just their way.

 

But while he was here, for however long she got this time, she was going to hold on with both hands.

 

And, when the time came, she would find a way to let go.

 

The rest of dinner went easily enough. They talked about the city, about Foggy, about Lieberman’s moth-eaten bathrobe, about whatever came into their heads. The reason for his unplanned visit was left carefully undiscussed, though she knew he had questions about her nightmares. The closest they got was when he mentioned securing the door, and she assured him she’d taken care of it.

 

He checked anyway, pausing to look her barricade over with a critical eye as he carried their dishes to the kitchen, giving a small nod in approval before putting the dishes by the sink and turning on the tap.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” she told him, leaning against the counter.

 

“You cooked, I’ll clean, only fair,” he said, slinging a dish towel over his shoulder and dunking the first bowl. Any further objections she may have had were firmly silenced by the picture he made, the domesticity of it all squeezing at her heart.

 

It was a little too much, actually, and she needed to distance herself from both him and the stupid sense of yearning that was curling in her gut.

 

“Suit yourself,” she said lightly, then turned away. “I’m going to go change.”

 

He made a small grunt of acknowledgement as she all but fled to the bedroom, hastily grabbing her pajamas-- a loose tank and short shorts, and no she definitely did not consider grabbing something a little more sultry, not at all-- and shutting herself away in the bathroom.

 

Several minutes and lots of face-splashing later, she ventured back into the lounge, finding him on the couch, carefully examining her .380.

 

“Does it make the cut?” she asked with a wry smile, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched him.

 

“It’s well maintained,” he said with a nod, approval in his voice. “Lieberman could--” finally looking up from the gun, he cut himself off mid-sentence as his eyes registered her tiny shorts and the amount of skin now left bare, and she felt a delicious flash of triumph spread through her.

 

“Lieberman could what?” she asked innocently, proud of herself when not even a trace of smugness over his dumbstruck reaction entered her voice. His iron control didn’t falter often, but when it did, it made her feel invincible.

 

“Learn a thing or two from you,” he finished finally, eyes dropping back to the gun as he carefully returned it to her purse. It was another marker of their connection that she didn’t mind in the slightest that he had gone into her belongings, and also that he’d felt comfortable enough to do so.

 

“Anyway, you’re probably tired, so I won’t keep you up,” he said gruffly, still avoiding looking at her. “If you don’t mind me crashing on the couch, I’ll head out early and grab some stuff to fix up the door.”

 

“I do mind,” she said dryly, then crossed over to him. “Get up, Frank.”

 

Slowly he rose, eyes meeting and holding hers, and she tilted her head to the bedroom. “C’mon.”

 

“Karen…”

 

“Frank, my couch is literally about half your size. Come on,” she insisted, reaching out and gripping his hand, giving it a tug. For a couple of beats he simply stared down at her, as immovable as stone-- and then she gave another light tug, and he took a slow step toward her, as if her touch was the one thing he couldn’t fight.

 

Holding back a smile, she led him into her bedroom, deliberately not thinking about how many times she’d fantasized about doing just that. Once he was across the threshold-- she hoped it was a point-of-no-return thing and he wouldn’t just suddenly bolt-- she released his hand and gestured at the bed.

 

“You get dibs on which side you want,” she said lightly, watching him stare at the bed.

 

For a moment she thought he would try to talk her out of this again, but finally he opened his mouth and muttered, “Right.”

 

The side closer to the door. Of course. She should have predicted that one; of course he would pick the spot in between her and any threats. She said nothing, though, just gave a slight nod and walked around to the left side and slipped in, then looked up at him.

 

“I don’t know what you usually sleep in,” she told him bluntly, “but anything that has someone else’s blood on it has to come off.”

 

To her surprise, he actually huffed a laugh. “Geez, Karen. You trying to get me naked?”

 

“It would be better than the alternative,” she retorted dryly, trying for blasé so he wouldn’t know just how fine she would be with a naked Frank Castle in her bed.

 

Looking anywhere but at her, he pulled off his shirt, then his jeans, and she watched unashamedly, though her initial enjoyment faded abruptly at the sight of multiple new scars marring his skin. He left the tight black briefs in place as he cautiously slipped into the other side of the bed, lying flat on his back with his arms above the covers.

 

Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she handed him her phone. “Here, plug that into the charger over there. The alarm is set for 7:30, and you better still be here when it goes off, okay?”

 

“Yes ma’am,” he muttered, taking the phone and plugging it in, then placed it carefully on the nightstand before resuming his position.

 

“Thank you,” she responded, then turned over, reaching for the lamp on her nightstand and flicking it off before settling down against the pillow, trying not to think of him right there behind her. “Goodnight.”

 

He was silent for almost a full minute, and she had almost given up straining to hear his breathing when he spoke.

 

“Karen… sometimes I move in my sleep,” he told her hesitantly, almost ashamedly, then added, “So, uh, how close is too close?”

 

Refusing to actually stop and consider what she was doing, Karen simply reached behind her, finding his hand where it rested on his chest. Gripping it gently, she pulled his arm around her, feeling his body reflexively follow until he was all but surrounding her, his chest brushing against her back.

 

“This close work for you?” she asked, the casualness in her tone belied by the rapid beat of her heart.

 

“Yeah,” he answered softly after a moment, his breath feathering against her hair.

 

“Good. Sweet dreams, Frank.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Karen.”

 

“Mmmm?” she mumbled, far too comfortable to be willing to relinquish her hold on sleep just yet. A moment later, she felt the vibration of his chest under her cheek as he spoke again.

 

“Your alarm is going off.”

 

“Ugh,” she uttered disgustedly, fighting the urge to just snuggle closer and ignore it-- because hell, she was literally half-draped atop Frank right now and who knew if this particular miracle would  _ ever _ happen again-- but instead she sighed and relented, propping herself up a little on her elbow and grudgingly holding out the hand that had been resting on his chest. “Give it here.”

 

Reaching out, he snagged it from the nightstand and handed it to her, and she noted that while doing so he made no attempt to move away or ease out from under her, his body actually seeming relaxed against hers. 

 

Or as relaxed as Frank ever got, anyway.

 

Fixing her eyes blearily on the screen, she turned off the alarm and then typed out a quick, decisive message before dropping the phone onto the covers with a quiet sigh. 

 

“What was that?” he asked, turning his head so he could look down at her.  

 

“Told Ellison I’m taking a sick day,” she answered simply, carefully laying her head back onto his chest before she could overthink it and lose her nerve. “He’s been bugging me to take some time off for months anyway.”

 

“Ah,” was his only reply, and for a moment she bit her lip, staring at the wall as she summoned her resolve.

 

“Frank?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can you take a sick day too?”

 

“Karen…” he began, but she cut him off. 

 

“The bad guys will still be there tomorrow, Frank. Just give me today,” she said, trying to shoot for cool and logical rather than desperate and pleading, and was relatively pleased with her success. Then she took a breath, tapping a finger lightly on his chest. “Plus, you promised you’d fix my door.”

 

He was silent for a long moment, long enough that it was becoming harder to ignore the way she was wrapped around him, practically clinging to him as she begged him to stay. 

 

Then, finally, he let out a breath.

 

“Okay.”

 

Fighting back a smile, she kept her voice even, relaxed. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll make some breakfast.”

 

And then he was gone, slipping out from underneath her with the swift grace of a cat, scooping his jeans up from the floor as he left the room without looking back.

 

With a huff, she collapsed back against the pillows. She hadn’t been expecting anything to happen, not really, because god knows neither of them was ready for  _ that _ step. But god, would a few more minutes of cuddling really have been so bad? 

 

Swiping a frustrated hand over her face, she forced herself out of bed, ducking into the bathroom as she heard cooking sounds start to drift in from the kitchen. A few minutes later-- at least one of which was spent staring at herself in the mirror, trying to come to grips with the fact she’d just technically slept with Frank Castle, the man who half the city was terrified of and who most of them certainly wanted to see behind bars-- she was suitably freshened up, although still in her pajamas, because it was her day off, dammit. Heading out into the lounge, she opened her mouth to speak-- then promptly forgot whatever it was she’d intended to say, her steps faltering. Frank was standing at her stove, shirtless, with his broad back to her and his jeans slung low around his hips. 

 

“You like fried eggs or scrambled?” he called over his shoulder, and she jumped, startled out of her brief reverie.

 

“Um, scrambled?”

 

“Figures,” he chuckled, cracking an egg into the bowl beside him.

 

“Excuse me?” she questioned, moving closer as he combined the eggs and milk in a smooth, practised manner. 

 

“Just that nothing with you is straightforward. Everything is always, y’know--” gesturing at the eggs he’d just poured into the pan-- “kinda a mess.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” she shot back, voice dry.

 

“Not saying it’s a bad thing,” he said with a slight shrug, then looked at her over his shoulder. “Though it’d be good if you could actually manage to keep yourself out of trouble.”

 

“Yeah?” she challenged, leaning against the slim support pillar that stood between the kitchen and lounge. “How about you tell trouble to stop finding me.”

 

He huffed a small laugh at that before turning back to the pan, silence falling for a moment. Then, when he spoke again, his voice had turned grim.

 

“Me being here is asking for trouble.”

 

“Yeah, and how’s that?” she retorted, despite knowing exactly where he was trying to go with this.

 

Namely, out of her life. 

 

He looked at her like she was crazy. “You know better than anyone that people around me tend to get hurt.”

 

Her temper rising, she crossed her arms across her suddenly tight chest, finally refusing to hold back anymore. “Is it my health that you’re worried about, Frank? Or my heart?”

 

He froze. “Karen--”

 

“No, Frank,” she interrupted hotly, all the tension and frustration that had simmered between them finally brimming over.  “I won’t pretend like nothing is happening here just because you’re scared.”

 

“You know what? I  _ am _ scared,” he threw back, eyes lifting to lock intensely onto hers, then gave a harsh nod at her look of surprise. “Yeah, I am. Not so long ago, I had a family. I thought I had my happy ending. Then that was all ripped away from me, and I nearly didn’t survive it. But I did, and after that I wasn’t afraid of fucking  _ anything _ because they’d already done the worst to me that they could possibly do. They didn’t have a single fucking thing left that could hurt me.” 

 

He shook his head, pulling in a deep, ragged breath as he looked away. When his eyes found hers again, the anger was gone, his gaze now vulnerable, haunted. 

 

“And then you showed up.”

 

“Frank…” she whispered, stepping closer, but he stepped back, avoiding her touch.

 

“Eggs are gonna get cold,” he mumbled, refusing to look at her.

 

“Okay. Just come sit with me,” she said gently, her anger gone as swiftly as it had come. Taking her plate, she moved over to the table and sat without looking back at him, giving him the space to choose. To her silent relief, he paused for only half a moment before following obediently, silently taking the place opposite her and starting on his eggs.

 

Heart still pounding, she did the same, trying to come to terms with the fact that that conversation really just happened. That the possibility of them becoming… well, a  _ them _ , was not just some fantasy she’d dreamed up in her head. It was real.

 

Holy shit.

 

She was halfway through her eggs-- him almost finished with his-- when he finally spoke.

 

“I’m… I’m still in the middle of all this, Karen. And I haven’t forgotten what you said that night, about… about having an after. But I have to be realistic about it. The people I’m up against… after might not be an option for me.”

 

“Well, then I guess we better focus on the right now,” she said slowly, her tone straddling the line between hope and caution, and she tried to subtly gauge his reaction without actually looking at him, afraid of what his next words would be. 

 

For a moment he stared down at his plate, looking like he was debating with himself. Then, eventually, he answered quietly, “I’d like that.”

 

Holding back the grin that wanted to spread over her face, she kept her eyes on her own plate, toying with her fork as she decided where to go from here.

 

“So these eggs are pretty good,” she commented, making sure to ham up the surprise in her tone.

 

“Yeah, well, I’m no chef like you,” he teased back, “But breakfast, that I can do.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she answered lightly, then turned her attention to finishing off every scrap on her plate. Only when she was done did she look up, seeing him already finished and watching her.

 

“Here,” she said, reaching for his plate to stack it on hers. “It’s my turn.”

 

He surrendered the plate without argument, but followed her to the kitchen and reclaimed his dishtowel, leaning relaxedly against the counter as she ran water into the sink. Determinedly ignoring the proximity of his bare chest-- seriously, was he doing this deliberately?-- she focused on the dishes, scrubbing the first before handing it to him. They completed the task in silence, and then she looked up at him, their eyes meeting and holding.

 

“Guess we better look at that door, huh,” he offered, and she nodded, grateful for a task. She could feel him following close behind her as she moved into the entryway, her shoulders tight as she tried not to visibly shiver. Standing to the side, she gestured lightly toward the table blocking the door, and he obligingly shifted it out of the way for her, moving it with far more ease than she had the night before. 

 

Then, together, they examined the door, Frank running his fingers slowly down the splintered door jamb in a way that had her biting her lip.

 

Damn this man and the completely inconvenient effect he had on her. 

 

“Shouldn’t be hard to fix,” he said, oblivious to her distraction. “No damage to the door, just the jamb itself. If I replace that and maybe tinker with the lock a little bit, it should be good as new.”

 

“Well, no doubt it was opened with some very efficient commando move,” she joked, doing her best not to picture said moment, knowing she would enjoy it far more than she should.

 

“We’re lucky the entire damn thing didn’t get smashed to smithereens,” he said darkly, still not looking at her, and she sobered, almost reaching out for him but stopping herself as he spoke again. “I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”

 

“Yeah,” she acknowledged softly, eyes meeting his as he turned back to her with a frown. 

 

“I can’t believe no one even came looking to see what the commotion was.”

 

She shrugged. “Yeah, Mrs Polinski across the hall is almost totally deaf, and Mr Clarke next door works evenings, so he would have been out. Doubt anyone even noticed.”

 

Frank made a face. “Not real safe, Karen.”

 

“Well, it’s what I can afford, and I happen to like it,” she said, a touch of defiance behind her words. If he wanted her to be safer, he should just check in on her more. A lot more.

 

Not that she could say that to him.

 

“So, what’s our next step?” she asked instead, folding her arms and looking appraisingly at the door.

 

“You stay here while I go get some materials to fix this.”

 

“Nope, not a chance,” she retorted, shooting him a sharp look. “This is a team project now, bucko.”

 

His eyebrows lifted. “Bucko?”

 

“Shut up and get dressed,” she told him, turning before he could see the newest in this morning’s series of blushes starting to stain her cheeks. Already crossing the room, she called over her shoulder, “I’ll be ready in less than ten.”

 

Not waiting for a reply, she disappeared into the bedroom, grabbing his shirt and tossing it out into the lounge before closing the door. And no, she didn’t sniff it. Much. 

 

She kept looking at her bed as she dressed, still barely able to believe that he’d shared it with her. That she’d simply asked him to stay, and he had. Incredible.

 

She wondered whether it would work again.

 

Electing to bypass makeup, she emerged from the bedroom after only five or so minutes, finding him on her couch with his boots on and her latest book in his hands.

 

It occurred to her then, for the first time, that he could have easily left without her while she was in the bedroom. Somehow, she’d just known that he wouldn’t. 

 

“This any good?” he asked, looking up from the book.

 

“Yeah, it was, actually. You can borrow it if you want,” she said half-jokingly, but he simply gave a thoughtful nod and laid the book back on the coffee table. 

 

“Might do that. You ready?”

 

“Yeah, let’s go,” she said, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She saw him glance down at it before raising his eyes to hers, and she patted it with a small smile, making him nod approvingly.

 

“So, what do we do about this?” she asked once they were out in the hallway, gesturing to her battered door. It wouldn’t even hold closed, let alone lock.

 

“Well, you could stay, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about your things,” Frank suggested, and she rolled her eyes. 

 

“Next suggestion.”

 

“Well, we’re only gonna be gone about an hour, so if you’re game then we can do it old school.”

 

“Sounds good to me,” she answered, then watched as he pulled a folded up piece of cardboard from his pocket.

 

“Hold it closed,” he instructed, and then crouched and pushed the cardboard forcefully into the gap under the door, until it could barely be seen.

 

Straightening, he looked down at her. “Not gonna stop anyone who gives it more than a light shove, but at least it looks locked.”

 

Weighing up the risk to her possessions against her refusal to be left behind, Karen nodded. 

 

“Good enough for me.”

 

Putting his sunglasses on, Frank pulled up his hood. “Alright, let’s go.”

 

The silence was comfortable as they walked down the hall towards the elevator, the moment feeling deceptively normal until they turned the corner and found her building super taping up the window to the fire escape, grunting as he reached up above his head to secure the plastic. She shot a glance at Frank, who had already fallen a step behind her, keeping his head down as she pressed the button for the elevator. 

 

“Oh, hey! Miss Page!” called the super suddenly, and she had to fight the urge to wince. The guy was usually nowhere to be found when you needed him, but of course he had to be here right now.

 

“Hi, Larry,” she said, her voice falsely bright. Too bright. Taking it down a notch, she added, “How are you doing?”

 

“I’d be better if some schmuck hadn’t broken in last night. You notice anything?”

 

“Nope, not a thing,” she said innocently, then asked, “You don’t think there’s a burglar or something still in the building, do you?”

 

“Nah, whoever it was would be long gone,” Larry said with assurance, then scratched at the patchy beard on his chin. “So far no one has reported any damage or missing property, though, so who knows what he was here for.”

 

“Well, if I notice anything out of the ordinary, I’ll be sure to mention it.”

 

“Thanks, Miss Page,” he said, then looked behind her with mild interest. “Who’s your friend?”

 

Damn, her well-known hermit tendencies were definitely biting her in the ass right now. She should have prepared for this, but she’d hand her hands full just dealing with Frank himself. 

 

Fumbling, she gave a jerky wave of her hand in Frank’s direction and blurted, “Ah, this is my boyfriend, Fr-- Fred.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Fred,” Larry said politely, just as the elevator finally gave its welcome ding beside her.

 

“You too,” Frank answered, lifting a hand in a small wave as the elevator doors opened beside him.

 

“Okay, well we’d better run or we’ll be late for our reservation. Have a nice day, Larry,” she rushed out, then pulled Frank into the elevator with her, barely hearing Larry’s surprised “Bye!” as the doors closed.

 

Frank stood facing the doors beside her, his expression unreadable but the smirk clear in his voice. 

 

“Fred, huh?”

 

“Look, it wasn’t my finest moment, and I would appreciate if we could just forget that ever happened,” she said quickly, the word  _ boyfriend _ repeating over and over in her ears. Larry had already said friend, why didn’t she just say  _ friend-- _

 

Unaware of her silent freakout, Frank simply chuckled, and soon enough they were stepping out of the elevator and into the foyer.

 

“Hey, so it would probably be better if--” he began as he opened the front door for her, then fell silent as he saw her already holding out her keys.

 

His mouth curved in a wry smile as he took the keys from her hand, then followed her out and down the steps. A minute later they were climbing into her car, and he immediately reached for the radio, flicking it on and nodding his head to the beat as Shining Star began to play.

 

“Well, clearly your taste in music has not improved in the last several months,” she commented dryly, pulling on her belt.

 

“Says the woman who already had the Earth, Wind and Fire cassette in the player?”

 

“I didn’t even realise it was in there. I only ever listen to the radio.”

 

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she belatedly remembered that the sound system had been set to cassette when they got in. Damn.

 

“Okay, fine,” she huffed. “Maybe it grew on me a little.” 

 

She didn’t add that she listened to it when she missed him-- which basically meant she listened to it on repeat. She’d known the entire album by heart for months now. 

 

He chuckled quietly in response, his fingers tapping lightly on the wheel. She leaned her head back against the headrest, simply watching him as he wound the car through the morning traffic, his eyes watchful but body relaxed.

 

She liked seeing him like this.

 

Here, in this moment, he almost seemed happy, without the usual haunted air that surrounded him. That he could be like this around her meant far more than she was prepared to admit.

 

“Hey, how did you get to my place, anyway?” she asked, the thought suddenly occurring to her for the first time.

 

“Drove.”

 

“Then where’s your car?” she asked, confused.

 

He shrugged. “Could be anywhere by now. Left it in the alley with the keys in it.”

 

“You  _ what _ ?”

 

“Didn’t exactly have time to find a parking space,” he said simply, then shrugged again like it was no big deal. “It was about time I got rid of it anyway.”

 

“Oh,” was all she could say. She’d been so caught up in this morning’s conversation and last night’s literal spooning that she’d almost forgotten the wild look in his eyes when he’d first seen her last night, the way his body had trembled in her arms. What had those long minutes been like for him, when he’d raced to her apartment after hearing her screams, thinking her injured or worse? 

 

Blinking rapidly, she turned and looked out the window. She didn’t need to imagine how she would feel if the situation had been reversed, if she’d thought she’d lost him. She’d already been there, already felt it.

 

She never wanted to feel it again. Ever. But if him pushing her away was the only alternative-- if her only other choice was to let him fade out of her life, to exist somewhere out in the world while she never knew if he was safe or okay or even still alive-- then she would take the risk.

 

“Okay, got a couple of stops to make,” he said after a few minutes of driving, breaking the silence.

 

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she straightened up in the seat. “Where first?”

 

“About here should do it,” he answered, pulling smoothly into an empty space and turning off the engine.

 

“What?”

 

“Stay in the car,” he told her, opening the door and climbing out. “I’ll only be a sec.”

 

Confused, she leaned over in her seat, staring out after him. “What are you doing?”

 

He gave a wry grimace. “Gotta call the babysitter.”

 

She watched as he closed the door and stepped up onto the curb, then walked straight to a nearby phone booth, keeping his head down as he fed it a few coins and quickly punched in a set of numbers. Whoever he was calling-- Lieberman, she guessed-- picked up right away, the entire conversation lasting barely 30 seconds. Soon enough, he was sliding back into the car and buckling in.

 

“Lieberman?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, restarting the car and pulling back out into the traffic.

 

“Why didn’t you just call him from my phone?” she asked, then narrowed her eyes. “There some reason you don’t want me to have his number, Frank?”

 

“Same reason I don’t want you to have mine. Because if someone ever suspects the connection between you and me, they’d be able to track me just by hacking your phone. Or if someone got hold of me, I don’t want them to have a reason to sniff around you. This way’s safer.”

 

Her temper fizzled out. He was right, and she knew it. Anyone who looked closely enough could see that there was a link between them, and while the thought of being  _ connected _ to Frank Castle kind of thrilled her, she also knew what a danger she was to him. Even right now he was putting himself and his mission at risk, all because she’d asked him to stay with her. If anyone ever got to him because of her…

 

“Stop thinking so hard,” he told her, “It’s your day off, remember?”

 

She smiled despite herself, which she knew had been his intention. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned to study him once more.

 

“So, where’s our next stop on this mystery tour?”

 

“Gonna need tools to fix that door, and just so happens that I know a guy.”

 

“Wait,” she said suddenly, sitting forward to stare at him in shock. “We’re going to see a real person?”

 

He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “As opposed to a fake one?”

 

“No, I mean-- like, someone who  _ knows _ you? Who knows Frank Castle?”

 

“Better than just about anybody,” he answered matter-of-factly, then paused, shooting her a pensive look. “Except maybe you.”

 

For a moment she couldn’t speak, instead just shut her mouth and gave a quick nod, turning to look out the window while she processed that admission.

 

“His name’s Curtis,” Frank offered, as if he knew she desperately wanted to ask but didn’t have the voice for it. “He was part of my squad for years. Trust him with my life.”

 

Clearing her throat, she looked over a him. “You’re not worried someone will make the connection between you two?”

 

He gave a small nod of acknowledgment. “The risk is there, but we’ve got our own system. I usually reach out to him, but he knows how to get hold of me if there’s an emergency.”

 

Distracted, she couldn’t do more than nod, too preoccupied with her own thoughts. He’d said she knew him better than almost anyone, but right now, she was realizing just how much she still didn’t know. Maybe would never know.

 

Ignoring the sudden ache deep in her chest, she drew a breath. She was a reporter, after all, and finding things out was literally her job. 

 

Maybe this Curtis could give her some answers. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Karen?”

 

Jerking out of her reverie, Karen looked sharply over at him, seeing him eye her with something almost like amusement. “I’m sorry, what?”

 

“I said we’re almost there.”

 

“Oh. Right,” she managed, still half caught up in her thoughts. She felt him watch her for another moment before turning back to the road, but he didn’t ask what she’d been thinking about, and she didn’t offer.

 

Obviously, she was hardly going to admit that the only thing on her mind-- both right now and, honestly, in general-- was him.

 

“This is his street,” he said after another minute or so of silence, indicating the street sign, and she immediately committed it to memory. A few moments later he pulled up in front of a simple but neatly kept house, its small porch looking freshly painted. “Alright, this is it.”

 

“I guess I’m waiting in the car, huh?” she muttered sardonically, not even bothering to reach for her seatbelt.

 

“Nope,” he answered curtly, releasing the catch on her belt for her before releasing his own.

 

“What?” she asked, staring at him in disbelief.

 

“I want you to come in, and meet him,” he said, then turned to her, eyes holding hers. “If there’s an emergency, or anything you ever need, Curtis can help.”

 

“Frank…”

 

“Come on,” he said, already climbing out of the car. Letting out an unsteady breath, she followed suit, both of them keeping their heads down as they crossed the small yard and climbed the porch steps. Frank gave two sharp raps on the door, and a moment later it opened to reveal a tall, handsome man with a welcoming smile on his face.

 

“So, this is her?” he asked cheerfully, then stuck out a hand. “Curtis Hoyle. Great to meet you, Miss Page.”

 

“You too,” she managed, almost too surprised to speak.

 

Beside her, Frank gave a small nod. “Curt.”

 

“Right, come on in,” Curtis said with a grand wave of his arm. Moving ahead of her, he led the way into the lounge, then turned to her. “Please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you guys anything? Coffee? Tea?”

 

“You got a nail gun?” Frank asked from behind her.

 

Curtis looked over her head at him, then back to her with a comically concerned expression. “That’s a joke, right?”

 

“No,” she told him with a small smile, liking him already. “My apartment door got a little, ah, damaged last night and it wouldn’t really suit to face questions from the super, so we need some tools to fix it up.”

 

“Ah. In that case, head into the shop out back,” he said to Frank. “You know the rules. You can have anything you want, as long as it definitely won’t be used to injure anyone.”

 

“No promises,” Frank muttered dryly, then held up his hands at Curtis’ reproachful look. “Hey, alright, alright. I’ll be right back.”

 

As he disappeared down the hall, Curtis turned to her, then gestured towards the couch. “Please, have a seat. Was there something I could get you? Coffee, Tea?”

 

Settling at one end of the couch, she gave him a smile. “Ah, coffee would be great, thanks.”

 

“Sure thing. It’s nothing fancy, sorry-- got used to the simple stuff when I was on tour and can’t seem to stomach anything else.”

 

“Fine by me,” she said, eyeing the prosthetic that was visible at his ankle as he headed around the kitchen counter. “Throw a teaspoon of sugar in there and I’m good.”

 

“Done.”

 

While he rattled around in the kitchen, she subtly scoped the room, trying to get a sense of the man who Frank Castle trusted above all others. Just that fact alone marked him as a truly good man-- and one of the few people in the world who could tell her all she longed to know about Frank.

“I’m glad to finally meet you,” Curtis spoke up from the kitchen, raising his voice over the sound of the kettle. “Not that I’ve heard a _lot_ about you, Frank being the man he is, but the little I’ve heard is very telling.”

 

“Well, I just learned about you about twenty minutes ago,” she said with a smile, “And I feel like I have a million questions and absolutely no time in which to ask them, nor any idea where to start.”

 

He laughed, coming around the counter to hand her a mug of coffee. “Well, we’ve probably got time for one or two, if you can narrow it down.”

 

Now that she finally had the opening she’d been dreaming of, she hesitated, suddenly realizing that of all her questions, only one truly mattered. Drawing in a breath, she looked up into his honest face, and hoped appearances weren’t deceiving.

 

“I guess all I really need to know is that you wouldn’t give him up if they got to you.”

 

“Not a chance in hell,” he said seriously, taking the seat opposite her and looking her in the eye. “I owe Frank my life, and even if I didn’t, he’s still my brother, my family. There’s nothing they could do to me to make me turn on him.”

 

She nodded at that, her newfound reporter’s instincts telling her it was the truth. As she took a sip of her coffee, he looked her over, then smiled gently at her.

 

“Somehow I can tell there’s no point in asking you the same thing.”

 

Meeting his eyes, she gave a small nod, her voice quiet. “He’s my family too.”

 

“I’m glad he has you,” Curtis said after a minute of comfortable silence, his voice warm and genuine. Then he lowered his eyes to his coffee. “It’s good for him to be reminded.”

 

“Reminded of what?”

 

His eyes found hers over the rim of his coffee mug. “That there are things in life worth living for.”

 

For a moment she stared at him, then looked away, taking a gulp of her coffee. She was spared from finding a safer topic by the sound of the back door closing, followed by Frank’s even footsteps down the hall. A moment later he entered the lounge with a black duffel over his shoulder, his eyes shifting from her undoubtedly pink cheeks to Curtis’ knowing smile.

 

“We’d better get moving,” was all he said, and she practically jumped at the chance.

 

“Right, okay. Thank you for the coffee, Curtis.”

 

“Anytime,” he said, rising to his feet and quickly scribbling a number on a notepad before handing it to her. “And please, if you need anything at all, you let me know, okay?”

 

She smiled at him. “Thank you. I will.”

 

Frank hefted the bag, then looked at Curtis and gave a nod. “I’ll see you.”

 

“Take care, brother,” Curtis said with a brief touch of his hand on Frank’s shoulder. Then they were out the door and heading down the porch steps, Frank crossing the yard without looking back. But she did, and saw Curtis still there in the doorway, watching them go with a look she knew all too well.

 

It was just like the one she wore every time Frank walked away from her, each time wondering if it was the last.

 

Once in the car, she turned to Frank. “I like him.”

 

Frank huffed. “Everyone does.”

 

“He seems to really care about you.”

 

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged slightly, then pulled out onto the street. “There’s just some shit you can’t go through with someone without it binding you for life.”

 

“Yeah,” she agreed, wondering if Curtis was the only person he felt that connection to. She hoped not.

 

“So where’s next?” she asked, trying to focus, to avoid disappearing down the rabbit hole that was her relationship with Frank Castle.

 

“Hardware store. Got the tools, now we need the materials.”

 

“Ah,” she said lightly, trying to tamp down her sudden alarm. “You’re not planning to…”

 

“No, Karen,” he said wryly, as if reading her mind. “This one’s all you.”

 

“Right. Good.”

 

A few minutes later they were at some kind of Home Depot equivalent, Frank pulling into a parking space in the most deserted corner of the lot. Reaching behind him into the duffel bag, he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her.

 

“Okay, here’s a list of what we need. Should take ten minutes, tops. If anything don’t feel right, just get out of there.”

 

“It’s a hardware store, Frank, not an enemy fortress,” she teased, tucking the list into a pocket as she opened the door.

 

“With the way people shop in this city, there ain’t much difference between the two,” he countered dryly, and she laughed.

 

“I’ll be right back,” she said, climbing from the car, then leaned down to look at him through the open door. “Don’t go anywhere.”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

The stupid smile was still on her face as she entered the store, and a nearby employee immediately gave her a friendly greeting and offered assistance, but she politely waved him off. Looking down at the list, she visited the lock aisle first, easily finding the one Frank had listed. Her current lock wasn’t broken-- just needed to be realigned a little-- but clearly he’d decided that a single lock and a safety chain was insufficient.  

 

Aside from the extra-long screws that she’d already found, the only other item on the list was a ‘jamb kit’, which she figured must be fairly easy to find if he’d given no further description. She made her way to the right aisle, then paused, frowning at the various options. A sudden voice beside her made her jump, her hand automatically reaching into her purse before her brain caught up and she snatched it back. Drawing attention to herself was about the last thing she wanted to do, not with Frank just outside, and pulling a gun on an innocent employee would certainly do that.

 

“Sorry to startle you, Ma’am!” blurted the young man, the same one that had greeted her by the entrance. _Toby_ , she read on his nametag. “Just wanted to see if you needed any assistance.”

 

“Not your fault, I was just distracted,” she answered, as politely as she could manage. “And thank you for the offer, but I think I’ve got it handled. Just need to grab a jamb kit.”

 

“Oh, I know just what you’ll be after, then!” he informed her cheerily, setting off down the aisle before stopping and pulling a long box from a rack. “Here we go!”

 

Controlling her expression, she joined him, checking the sticker against her list.

 

Leaning in, he turned the box, showing her the pictogram along its side. “You can see on the picture here that everything’s all included-- the jamb, weather stripping, shims, casing, even the nails and screws. It’s a great little package, makes the repair a breeze.”

 

“Great, thank you, Toby,” she said quickly, reaching for the box. “I’ll take it from here.”

 

The kid shook his head fervently. “No, no, I’ll take it to the front for you. Unless you were after anything else?”

 

“No, that’s it. And that’s kind of you, but--”

 

Too late. He’d already hoisted the box over his shoulder and stepped away, gesturing for her to walk with him. “Great! So, doing a little DIY, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” she sighed, resigning herself.

 

“Awesome,” he said brightly as she fell in step with him. “I totally support women doing guy stuff, you know?”

 

“That’s progressive of you,” she muttered, but the sarcasm was lost on him, his voice instead becoming even more eager.

 

“Yeah, well, I try to stay woke, you know? I love women’s rights and stuff.”

 

God, the urge to roll her eyes was so strong. Forcibly controlling herself, she managed a half-hearted reply. “That’s great, Toby.”

 

“Here, I’ll run you through this register,” he said quickly as they neared the front of the store, beelining for a closed register despite the clear line of people waiting at the only other open register.

 

“No, that’s okay, I don’t mind waiting in line--”

 

But he was already scanning the box, then literally took her other items from her hands and scanned them as well before punching in a quick set of numbers. “Here we go. I even added my staff discount so it saves you a little cash. More left for the fun stuff, right?”

 

Holding back a sigh, she shot an apologetic look at the several other waiting customers, then quickly handed over the cash. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

 

“Hey, no worries,” he answered with a grin, then suddenly grabbed the box again. “Here, I’ll carry this out to your car for you.”

 

Oh, come _on_. “Oh, no, that’s really not--”

 

But he was already off again, and she had to move fast to catch up with him just outside the front door.

 

“Toby, thanks so much for all your help. But really, I’ve got it from here,” she said firmly, holding her hands out for the box. Then,  she tilted her head a bit, giving him a conspiratorial look. “You know, gotta be a strong independent woman and all that. You get it.”

 

He wilted a little at that; she’d backed him into a corner, and he couldn’t very well insist on being chivalrous after all his talk about respecting women’s abilities and independence. Knowing she had him defeated, she felt a tiny vindictive surge of triumph in her chest, and fought the urge to smirk down at him.

 

“Yeah, right, sure,” he said with a hint of disappointment, handing the box over at last before pausing and looking at her hopefully. “Well, uh, it was great meeting you. Do you think I could maybe get your number?”

 

“Sorry. I’m actually in a relationship.” The words were out of her mouth before she even thought them through, but to her shock, she found that she meant them.

 

Well, shit. She was in deeper than she thought.

 

“Right. Never mind then,” he answered, both the hope and the previous friendliness gone from his voice. “Seeya.”

 

With that, he turned and strode back into the store, and she blew out a breath, eyes wide. _Men_. Shaking her head, she hefted the box and crossed the parking lot quickly, feeling Frank’s eyes on her the whole way. No doubt he’d seen the entire thing.

 

“You okay?” he asked the moment she opened the door, eyes meeting hers briefly as she tossed the bag with the lock on her seat, and then moved to the back to wedge the box across the backseat.      

 

“Yeah, I’m all good. Just an overly helpful employee.” Sliding into the passenger seat, she looked over at him, feeling like she’d just slipped back into a bubble of comfort and safety, the outside world already forgotten.

 

“He ask for your number?” Frank asked casually as he started up the car, and she glanced over at him in surprise.

 

“How’d you know?”

 

“Because I’ve seen you,” he answered simply, and she looked away quickly, hiding her blush. God, why did her body have to be such a traitor whenever he was involved?

 

Still looking out the window, she sighed. “I wish more women worked in hardware stores.”

 

“A woman might have asked for your number too,” he replied logically, but she knew him well enough to hear the trace of amusement beneath his tone.

 

“Nope, because she would have read the glaring ‘not interested’ cues and left me alone.”

 

“Fair point,” he conceded, then was quiet for several moments, eyes on the traffic. “Guess you didn’t give it to him, then.”

 

“I told him I was taken,” she answered, feeling bold despite her flaming cheeks. She waited a beat before adding casually, “Seemed like the quickest way to get rid of him.”

 

“Smart,” Frank grunted, but from the corner of her eye she could see the way his hands tightened on the wheel, his posture tense.

 

“So, that’s everything?” she asked lightly, carefully changing the subject. “We can go home now?”

 

“Yeah,” he answered, some of the tension in him seeming to ease slightly, and she turned and looked back out the window, giving him his space.

 

She’d again steered them too close to dangerous territory and she knew it; knew from their almost-fight this morning the power that she held over him.

 

She _frightened_ him.

 

There was a kind of hilarious irony to the fact that the only person that the big bad Punisher truly feared was a woman who, without her .380 in her hand, was about as physically threatening as your average 5th grader.

 

But hell, he terrified her too. While nearly every resident of their city lived in fear of Frank Castle appearing in their life, she couldn’t face the idea of him leaving hers.

 

Swallowing, she pushed back that train of thought, refusing to let herself think beyond today. He’d promised her that much, at least, and she wasn’t going to spend the few hours she had worrying about what came next.

 

The rest of the drive back to her apartment was quiet; while he seemed to have recovered from her earlier comments, he’d turned pensive, and she could almost sense him sinking back into his mission, thinking of all the things he should be doing right now, all the places he should be rather than right here.

 

But today was _hers_.

 

“So, you’re pretty confident you can fix this door, huh?” she asked, keeping her tone light, teasing, deliberately pulling him out of his thoughts and back into the real world with her.

 

He blinked, then glanced over at her, a corner of his mouth quirking slightly. “Yeah.”

 

“Any qualifications?”

 

“My old man was a carpenter,” he said with a small, lopsided shrug. “Taught me a thing or two.”

 

Her grin disappeared, her previous playfulness immediately replaced by genuine curiosity and interest. “Were you close to him?”

 

“Closer to his fists.”

 

“God, Frank,” she murmured, instinctively starting to reach for him before catching herself and dropping her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

 

He shrugged. “Ancient history.”

 

For several moments she couldn’t speak, just stared at him with prickling eyes, heart breaking for the kid he’d been.

 

Then, to her surprise, he spoke again.

 

“I had a dog.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re looking at me like I ain’t ever got to experience anything happy in my life,” he explained, shooting her a dry look. “I had a dog when I was a kid. Smart, loyal, went just about everywhere I did. Real kid’s best friend.”

 

Realising what he was doing, she looked away abruptly, blinking hard to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened to spill over. He’d been the one who had suffered, who had been abused and mistreated, and yet here he was, trying to make _her_ feel better. This was the Frank Castle she wished the rest of the world could see, the man she’d sensed was in there from the moment she’d walked the darkened rooms of his empty house.

 

What she hadn’t known then was just how much he would mean to her.

 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she rasped out a response. “What was his name?”

 

“McClane.”

 

Surprised, she laughed despite herself. “Die Hard fan, huh?”

 

“Yippee-ki-yay, ” he smirked, and she shook her head, still smiling. He’d always been able to read her better than anyone else-- had always seen the sides of her that she so carefully kept hidden from the world-- but right now she was struck by how truly he _knew_ her.

 

She was still thinking about their connection when they pulled into her parking spot only a few moments later, and she immediately climbed from the car, letting him grab the box and the duffel, the small plastic bag from the hardware store swinging in her hand as she watched him.

 

As they stepped inside and headed for the elevator, his sunglasses and hood in place once more, she asked, “So I guess you’re a dog person, then?”

 

“Like cats too,” he disagreed as they entered the elevator, standing closer together than was probably necessary. “Always wanted a whole bunch of pets, but doesn’t exactly fit with the Marine lifestyle.”

 

“Well, maybe one day soon you’ll get to have a whole little zoo of your own,” she said lightly, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead.

 

“Yeah, maybe,” he answered simply, and though his tone was easy, indulging her, she could tell he didn’t really believe it.

 

But someday, he would. Eventually, she’d get through to him, would prove to him that not only could he _have_ an after, but he _deserved_ one.

 

And when he finally did, she just hoped she would be a part of it.

 

“I’ve been thinking of getting a pet,” she said after a moment. “A rescue, maybe.”

 

“Got a bit of a thing for strays, don’t you?”

 

Surprised, she glanced up at him, but couldn’t read his gaze behind his dark sunglasses, couldn’t be sure that he meant that they way she thought he meant it. Looking away, she bit her lip, just a hint of challenge in her tone.

 

“Maybe I do.”

 

He made no reply to that, not that she’d expectd him to. Instead the only response was from the elevator itself, which gave a cheery _ding_ as they reached her floor, its doors opening.

 

Suddenly wishing she could just reach out and take his hand-- as if they were just two normal people, returning from doing normal, everyday errands-- Karen settled for letting the backs of her fingers brush against his as they stepped out of the elevator together, the touch lingering.

 

He didn’t pull away.


	4. Chapter 4

“Karen, wait.”

 

Reaching out, he halted her as they turned towards her apartment, his palm coming to rest against her stomach as he gently held her back.

 

“Let me have a look first, okay?”

 

“Okay,” she mumbled at his back, too distracted by the sudden fire spreading across her abdomen to give a more coherent response.  

 

“Looks alright,” he murmured as he neared her apartment, the edge of the little cardboard square still just peeking out from underneath her closed door. Leaning the box against the hallway wall, Frank held up a hand when she started to move closer, then gave the door a small, controlled shove with his shoulder, stepping into the apartment and doing a swift sweep before waving her in after him.

 

“Good, I was really not wanting to get robbed today,” she said, moving past him to put the bag down on the table, her eyes following him as he lowered the duffel and went out to the hall to retrieve the box.

 

When he’d placed it down beside the bag, she moved over to him. “So, where do we start?”

 

“Out with the old, in with the new,” he said simply, unzipping the duffel and pulling out a small crowbar.

 

“Oh, I’m enjoying this already,” she replied, a slow grin spreading across her face.

 

His lips twitched in an almost-smile, and he held out the crowbar toward her. “Come on, then. I know you’re just dying to destroy shit.”

 

Grinning at him, she swiftly tied her hair back, then joined him in the open doorway, accepting the crowbar and directing her gaze to the broken jamb.

 

“Now what?”

 

“This here is the casing,” he said, patting the splintered wood that edged the doorway, then ran a hand down the interior of the door frame, where the lock used to engage before he annihilated it. “This is the jamb. Hook the pry-bar into these gaps here and use it to pull the casing off first. I’ll unscrew the jamb and then you can rip that out too.”

 

“That I can do.”

 

He shot her a fleeting grin before walking over to the duffel and pulling out a drill, checking the bit and giving it a couple of brief bursts. She tried not to watch; she’d definitely never had a handyman thing before, but it sure looked like she was developing one now. Great.

 

A moment later he rejoined her, one foot on either side of the threshold as he deftly undid the screws securing the upper half of the jamb, then knelt to get to the rest. Carefully focusing on her own task and _not_ on his shoulder brushing against her thigh, she levered the casing free of the wall, tossing the broken chunks into a pile behind her. She got the last of it just as he was returning the drill to the bag, and stepped back to admire her work.

 

“How’s that?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual so it wasn’t _totally_ obvious that she was enjoying this far too much.

 

“Good,” he confirmed, eyes running the length of the doorframe as he came to stand beside her. “Ready for step 2?”

 

“Hell yeah.”

 

“Alright, what you’re gonna do is stick the pry-bar in the space here behind the jamb,” he said, moving in close, his large hand covering hers as he directed the pry-bar into the correct spot, only to let go and step back far sooner than she would have liked. “Then force it out of place. Slow and steady.”

 

Cursing the heat in her cheeks-- and elsewhere-- she focused all her attention on levering the broken jamb out, a rush of triumph filling her when it abruptly gave, cracking in half.

 

“Nice work. Gotta go carefully now because we don’t wanna damage the top jamb,” he said, his hands finding her shoulders and maneuvring her into the center of the doorway as he spoke. “Come stand here and grab the jamb with both hands, and just shimmy it out.”

 

“Shimmy it out?” she teased, looking over her shoulder at him.

 

“Hey, if you’re gonna do it, do it, or move out of the way,” he told her, his voice flat but eyes amused.

 

“As much as I would love to see you do the shimmying, I got this,” she tossed back, catching just a hint of his smile as she turned away.

 

Grasping the upper half of the jamb, she wiggled it free of the join at the top of the door, handing it off to him with a smirk before doing the same with the lower half. With a nod, he deposited both pieces on her scrap pile before digging around in the duffel.

 

Tossing her a tape measure, he said, “Measure the length from the inner edge of the top jamb to the floor.”

 

Turning to the jamb kit box, he pulled a knife from his pocket and opened it up, pulling out the new jamb and laying it on the floor. She measured as she was told, then reported the numbers back to him. He held up a hand and she tossed the tape back, watching him smoothly measure out the same length and mark it, trusting her to have gotten it right. Then, he retrieved a saw from the duffel, and had the jamb cut down to the right height in moments. As he worked, she leaned against the wall and simply watched him, enjoying seeing him in his element.

 

“Alright,” he said, lifting the jamb easily as he stood. “Help me slot this in.”

 

Oh great, now she was blushing again. Eyes down, she helped him line up the new jamb and push it into place, a small sigh of relief escaping her when the edges lined up perfectly. With a gentle hand on her arm, he drew her back, then swung the door closed, examining the alignment for a moment before giving a small nod and opening it back up again.

 

“Is it looking okay?”

 

“Yeah, looking good,” he answered, then went back to the box, reaching in and drawing out three narrow pieces of wood about a foot long each. When he returned, he handed her two of the three.

 

“These are the shims,” he said, reaching up and wedging his piece of wood in the space beside the jamb, as close to the top as he could.

 

“And they’re... some kind of support?” she guessed, looking up at the one he’d already placed.

 

“Yeah. They keep the jamb from shifting,” he said, taking one of the others from her and crouching to shove it into the gap at floor level. When he stood, she held out the last piece, but he shook his head, instead gently shifting her aside so he could close the door again, then held out his hand. She gave him the shim, then watched as he carefully forced it into the gap halfway up the height of the door, opening and closing the door a couple of times to check the fit. As he worked, his gaze was focused, his actions assured, and her heart ached for the man he could have become if he’d chosen to take up a trade instead of joining the army. And then ached for a completely different reason when she realized that, in that world, she never would have met him.

 

Or, who knows, maybe she would have. Maybe she would have had a break-in and needed to call someone to fix her door, and it would’ve been him that showed up. She could have made him a coffee and flirted a little-- because god knows any version of her would have been attracted to any version of him-- and maybe they would have really _had_ something, something that wasn’t impeded by quests for vengeance or government cover-ups or body counts in the dozens. Something normal, something true and lasting.

 

Maybe, in another life.

 

“Alright, just gotta secure it,” he said, startling her out of her thoughts. Looking up at him, she saw a strange, pleased look cross his face, and had a brief moment of panic that he’d somehow heard her thoughts.

 

As she reminded herself that that was completely impossible, he looked over at the bag of tools, then back at her with a slight smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.

 

“So, we got two options here.”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Yeah. Either we can screw the jamb in,” he said, crossing over to where the drill sat beside the duffel, “Or we can use this puppy.”

 

Reaching into the duffel bag, he pulled out a nail gun, and she felt her face split into yet another wide grin.

 

“I vote nail gun,” she answered eagerly, and he chuckled.

 

“Thought you might.”

 

Bringing the nail gun over, he tapped a finger on the jamb, right at the level of the middle shim. “Alright, here’s what you’re gonna do. Two nails through the jamb and into each shim. I got the top, but the others are yours.”

 

Watching him closely as he demonstrated on the highest shim, she was caught off guard by the flood of warmth that filled her chest, the way her breath caught suddenly in her throat.

 

It was a ridiculous response, and not one that performing household repairs was supposed to evoke, but…

 

She was just… happy.

 

Clearing her throat, she watched as he brushed his fingers over the newly-imbedded nails, then turned to hold the gun out to her in invitation.

 

Eyeing it, she stepped closer. “Any trick to these things that I should know?”

 

“Nope. Just like your hand cannon. Find your mark, steady the gun, and pull the trigger. Here,” he said, handing it over, then put his hands over hers as she pressed the gun to the jamb, supporting and guiding her. After a moment’s hesitation, she tightened her finger on the trigger and the nail buried itself into the wood with a satisfying thud.

 

With a delighted laugh, she looked up at him. “I want one.”

 

“Your love of dangerous weapons is a little worrying,” he muttered, giving her a mock frown.

 

“I’m sorry, what’d you say? I couldn’t hear you over all the hypocrisy.”

 

“Touché,” he chuckled, then stepped back, making her miss the warmth of his chest behind her. “Go on then, gunslinger. Three to go.”

 

He watched her put in the next one, a fact that she forced herself to ignore, then went back to the bag to grab his saw while she put the last two nails into the bottom shim. When he joined her by the door, he motioned for her to put the nail gun away-- which she did, very carefully-- then started sawing through the bit of the top shim that was sticking out from the gap. When he was through, he did the same for the bottom shim, then handed the saw to her.

 

“Last one’s yours.”

 

Accepting the saw from him with a smile, she got to work, frowning with the effort. She wasn’t nearly as efficient as he was, but she eventually got through, turning to him with a triumphant grin, finding him watching her with a soft look on his face.

 

“Nice work,” he said quietly, and god, she really couldn’t think when he was looking at her like that. Or when he was standing so damn close. Drawing a breath, she turned away from him, pretending to survey the door as she gave herself a chance to recover.

 

“How much is left to do?” she asked, as a thought suddenly occurred to her.

 

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Not all that much, just the casing and the locks. Why, you getting bored?”

 

“Hungry, actually. Was thinking I’d order something. Maybe Chinese?”

 

“Works for me,” he said, letting her hand him the saw as she moved past, snagging her phone from the table as she went.

 

“Any requests, or are you good with me just ordering a few things?”

 

“Go for it. I trust you,” he responded, head down as he dug around in the duffel, which meant he didn’t see her grinning like an idiot as she pulled the number from her contacts list. She ordered a few favorites, watching him as he measured the length of the casing, then said a distracted goodbye and hung up.

 

“Thirty minutes,” she told him, moving to lean against the wall as he marked and cut the casing with effortless precision.

 

“We’ll have it done by then. If you get your toy, you can nail this on,” he said, aligning the casing with the edge of the doorway. “It’ll leave bigger marks than a hammer and normal nails, though.”

 

“Fine by me,” she answered immediately, already picking up the nail gun.

 

“We need about five nails right along the casing, evenly spaced. Start here,” he said, pointing to a spot near the top of the door. Drawing a deep breath, she braced the gun and squeezed the trigger, the nail instantly slamming into place. Frank just nodded and pointed to the next spot, and one by one they placed the nails in the casing, the last couple done with the two of them kneeling side by side on the floor, shoulders brushing.

 

God, she loved this; loved the feeling of working with him, fixing something with him. She wondered how many times she could have him come help her fix something before he realised she was destroying all her own stuff on purpose.

 

Probably just the once.

 

“Look at that, you’re a pro already,” he said approvingly, and she flushed with unexpected pride. Rising to his feet, he held out a hand to her, and she let him pull her upright, her fingers staying curled around his maybe just a second or two longer than she needed to, her eyes holding his.

 

After another silent moment, she reluctantly pulled back and moved away, putting the nail gun carefully back in the duffel. When she turned back to look at him, he was facing away from her, lightly marking the inside of the jamb with a pencil.

 

“Could you grab the weather stripping from in the box?” he asked over his shoulder, his focus still on his task.

 

“Sure,” she said, upending the box and picking the long piece of rubber stripping up from the floor. Carrying it over to him, she helped him peel off the plastic and press the adhesive side to the interior of the door jamb, moving back as he cut through the too-long top end before pushing it into place. Then, he stepped back and closed the door, and she had to grin.

 

“Looks pretty damn good,” she said, both proud and impressed.

 

“Yeah, not bad,” he agreed easily, which coming from him felt like high praise.

 

“What’s next?”

 

“Gotta cut out the catch for the lock,” he said, then shot her a look. “Not to diss your skills or anything, but I better do this part.”

 

“Understood. You are the expert, as it turns out,” she answered with a teasing grin. Then, resting a hand on her hip, she gestured with the other at the bag. “Can I hand you stuff, or something?”

 

“Sure,” he answered with a small curve of his lips. Then, he dug around through the bag, passing her a hammer and chisel, and the new metal catch he’d had her get this morning. “Hold these for me, would you?”

 

“On it,” she said, moving to lean against the wall as he picked up the drill and fitted a new, larger head to it, then carefully swung open the door.

 

“Alright. We already know where the catch has gotta go,” he told her, pointing to the pencil marks he’d put there a minute earlier, “We just gotta get the shape right. Trade me for a sec?”

 

Shoving the hammer and chisel under her armpit, she accepted the drill from him, handing him the metal catch in exchange.

 

“I feel like I came out the winner in that deal,” she said, giving the drill a playful buzz.

 

“Yeah, enjoy it while it lasts,” he chuckled, carefully tracing the shape of the catch with his pencil before holding out his hand expectantly. “Time’s up.”

 

“Fine,” she sighed, surrendering the drill and taking the catch back. Within moments he had two neat circles within the rectangle he’d traced, and then he wordlessly held the drill back out to her.

 

“Now it’s all yours. Hammer and chisel, please.”

 

Handing them over, she held the drill close to her chest, feeling the residual warmth radiating from the motor. Who knew power tools could feel so comforting?

 

With a few smooth, controlled taps of the chisel, he’d cleared out half of the space for the catch already, and it occurred to her what the next step would be. Moving to the duffel bag, she found the drill kit and switched out the current bit for a phillips head, then grabbed a couple of long screws from the hardware store bag.

 

“Okay,” Frank murmured, frowning at the door jamb and using a fingernail to dig out a stray splinter of wood. “Can I get you to grab--”

 

Looking up, he fell abruptly silent as she held out the drill, screws, and metal catch.

 

“These?” she asked, trying to keep the smirk from her face.

 

“That’s my girl,” he said, the words seeming to slip out almost unthinkingly, his voice warm with approval. Thankfully missing the return of her semi-permanent blush, he took the proffered catch and fit it into place before accepting the drill and screws in exchange for the hammer and chisel.

 

Turning back to the door, he stuck one screw into the corner of his mouth as he lined up the other with the catch, and god, this shouldn’t be working for her so much. Like seriously, _did_ she have a goddamn handyman kink? Or just a Frank Castle kink? She really wasn’t sure, though she suspected it was probably mostly the latter. Before she had much time to think about it, though, he’d plucked the second screw from his lips and drilled it firmly in place, two of his fingers dipping into the catch to check the security of its positioning.

 

Jesus _Christ_.

 

“So, should we test it?” she asked a little too abruptly, eager for a distraction from her totally-not-appropriate thoughts, and he nodded, stepping back to swing the door shut. The lock engaged with a satisfying click, and they looked at each other and grinned.

 

“You’re a pretty handy man to have around, Frank Castle,” she told him, aware that her tone was definitely bordering on adoration and yet not caring in the slightest.  

 

At that, his grin faded as quickly as it had appeared, his eyes dropping to the drill in his hand, the plastic creaking faintly under his suddenly tight grip.

 

“You’re forgetting that I’m the reason it needed fixing.”

 

Refusing to let him sink into one of his moods, she gave a playful little shrug. “Insignificant detail.”

 

“Yeah? Well--” he began, then fell abruptly silent, head snapping around to the door a moment before three sharp knocks reverberated through the wood.

 

Peering around his shoulder-- at the first knock he’d shifted directly in front of her, shielding her-- she let out a breath.

 

“It’s probably just the delivery guy, right?”

 

“He’s three minutes early,” Frank replied stiffly, without even needing to check his watch. Then, angling his head slightly towards her, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Stay back.”

 

She gave a small nod and watched him anxiously as he shifted forward, leaning in to look out the peephole. He didn’t even flinch when the door rattled with three new knocks, whereas she couldn’t help but jump.

 

“Looks legit,” he muttered, moving back from the door. Turning to her, he tipped his head towards the lounge. “I’ll be right over here.”

 

“Okay,” she answered, then took his place at the door, waiting until he was around the corner before unlocking the door and drawing it open, revealing a blonde guy in his early twenties holding two big takeout bags.

 

“Hello,” she said, her tension easing as she recognized the logo on the bags.

 

“Hi,” he replied without much enthusiasm, holding out the bags to her. “That’s $31.80.”

 

“Right, sure,” she said, taking the bags awkwardly in one hand before digging in her pocket and handing him a couple of twenties.

 

“Don’t worry about change. Thanks, bye,” she said quickly, then closed the door in his face, relieved to hear the click of the lock engaging. Peering out the peephole, she saw him pocket the money and walk off, and blew out a breath.

 

Frank was already beside her, gently taking the bags out of her hands, and she turned to look up at him, shoving her fingers through her hair.

 

“Nothing can just be simple anymore, can it?”

 

He paused, a grim twist to his mouth. “Not as long as I’m in your life, Karen.”

 

“Well, then fuck simple,” she answered bluntly, her eyes holding his for a moment before she walked past him to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and grabbing out a couple of beers. Behind her, she could hear him setting the containers out on her table as she popped the top off the bottles.

 

“Chopsticks or fork?” she asked over her shoulder, hand hovering above the open drawer.

 

“Chopsticks.”

 

“Good answer,” she said, picking up two pairs and their beers and joining him at the table.

 

“Thanks,” he said as he accepted the beer from her, then took a seat. “And thanks for all this. I’ll pay you back sometime.”

 

She waved a hand dismissively. “Pretty sure that saving my life multiple times makes you eligible for all the free food you want.”

 

“Still,” he muttered stubbornly, and she shrugged.

 

“Well, you can just owe me dinner sometime.”

 

He paused, then gave a small nod. “Sounds fair.”

 

Busying herself with digging some noodles from the box, she deliberately tried not to think about the fact that she’d basically just asked Frank Castle on a date. For the second time, actually, considering her offer last night to cook for him sometime.

 

And yet, both times, he’d said yes.

 

Or at least, he hadn’t said no.

 

Mentally shaking herself out of it, she finished her mouthful and set the box down before reaching for another.

 

“Try this one,” she told him, using her chopsticks to indicate the dish she’d just put down. “Best chow mein in the city.”

 

He raised his eyebrows at her, then reached for the box. “That’s a big call.”

 

“Alright, best chow mein within five blocks,” she conceded with a wry smile.

 

“That was a good piece you did, that one on drug dealing in Chinese restaurants in the burroughs,” he said after a moment, carefully trapping some noodles between his chopsticks before lifting them to his mouth.

 

“You read that?” she asked, taken aback. That article had been four months ago.

 

He shrugged, eyes fixed on his food. “Read ‘em all.”

 

“Yeah?” she managed, throat suddenly tight. She’d definitely hoped-- hell, she’d even started including subtle messages in every article, just in case he might happen to see it. Even her editor had eventually begun to notice how many times she dropped the words ‘frank’ or ‘frankly’ per article, and had suggested she work on finding synonyms.

 

She didn’t.

 

“Seemed like a good way to keep up with things,” he explained quietly, and she knew he meant _her_ , not the news. “Even wrote a couple of letters to the editor ‘bout them.”

 

“You _what_?” she spluttered, her food completely forgotten. Instantly, her mind jumped to the file on her computer where she kept all letters to the editor about her works, mentally skimming through those she could remember.

 

“A man’s entitled to his opinions, Karen,” he told her teasingly, tapping on the takeout box with his chopsticks.

 

“Under what name?” she all but demanded, her eyes never leaving his face.

 

She saw him hesitate, seeming unsure, but he answered her anyway. “Pete C. I was working construction in Brooklyn under the name Pete Castiglioni.”

 

Her mind reeled. _Pete C._  She recognised the name easily, remembered appreciating the intelligence and insight in every one of his letters, his eloquence and his clear respect for her skills. And there had definitely been more than just a couple of letters-- there’d been at least one every couple of weeks for the last six months.

 

God.

 

The warm glow in her chest abruptly fizzled out as the other part of what he’d said finally registered with her.

 

“Wait,” she asked sharply, eyes locking onto his. “You were in Brooklyn that whole time?”

 

“Not the whole time,” he said carefully, “But near enough.”

 

“Right,” she muttered, hurt and anger radiating through her.  

 

“I came to see you,” he told her, guilt and apology lacing his words. “About a week after it all went down. They had someone on your place-- maybe they were watching all my known contacts, maybe they figured out you weren’t just on my legal team, I don’t know. Anyway, I saw them and I didn’t want to bring more shit onto your doorstep, so I ghosted.”

 

Clenching her jaw, she kept her eyes down, willing the tears not to fall.

 

“Kept an eye on ‘em, though,” he added quickly, as if he needed her to know it. “They stuck around for a few weeks, then I guess they got pulled. By then too much time had gone by, and you seemed to be going well, y’know, no one shooting at you for once, so I just… stayed away.”

 

Drawing in a ragged breath, she shook her head. “Just because I wasn’t in mortal danger doesn’t mean I was going well, Frank.”

 

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, like he knew exactly what she meant. “I’m sorry, Karen.”

 

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly reached out and laid his hand over hers, his touch deliberately light as if he expected her to pull away. For a split second she considered it, considered showing him just how much he’d hurt her, how his actions affected more than just himself.

 

Instead, she unclenched her fist and turned her hand over, curling her fingers around his. For several long moments they stayed there like that, not speaking, not looking at each other; just holding on.

 

Finally, she let out a long breath, then lifted her eyes to his.

 

“What I’m having most trouble believing is that you actually wrote all the letters from Pete C,” she said dryly, giving his fingers a small squeeze before drawing her hand away and retrieving her chopsticks. Picking up one of the takeout containers, she shot him a mischievous look over the top of it. “I mean, he was really eloquent.”

 

“Who says I’m not eloquent?” he asked, feigning offense before his grin gave him away, and he picked up his own takeout box and scooped up a large bite, speaking around his mouthful. “I’m great at words.”

 

His bulging cheeks and overly earnest expression were so ridiculous that she couldn’t hold back her laugh, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

 

“ _There_ it is,” he said, his eyes warm.

 

“You’re an ass,” she replied, but the affection in her voice robbed the insult of any weight. Grin still lingering on her lips, she set her takeout container down and took his straight out of his hands, raising a challenging eyebrow when he made a noise of protest. Holding up his hands in an exaggerated sign of surrender, he opted to reach instead for the entrees, crunching down an entire spring roll in a single bite, making her snort.

 

They didn’t say much else for the rest of the meal, settling into a comfortable silence as they ate, and before too long she set her container aside, a small groan escaping her lips.

 

“Okay, nope, that’s it. Any more and I’m gonna be in a food coma for a week.”  

 

“Sounds like a good holiday,” was his deadpan reply, then he stood and held out a hand. “Here, I’ll put these away.”

 

Toying with her beer bottle, she watched as he deposited all their half-empty containers in the fridge, then tied each of the takeout bags in a neat little knot before leaving them on her counter.

 

“Heads up,” he said, walking back over and tossing something to her. Catching it instinctively, she looked down and grinned.

 

“Don’t tell me Frank Castle believes in fortune cookies?”

 

He made a face. “I believe in cookies. The rest is bullshit.”

 

“Oh yeah? We’ll see about that,” she said, breaking her cookie open and popping half into her mouth as she pulled the tiny strip of paper from the other. Reading the neatly printed words, she let out a huff, something squeezing uncomfortably in her chest.

 

“What’s it say?” Frank asked around his mouthful of cookie, his own message dwarfed in his large hand.

 

“You first,” she said stubbornly, closing her fingers tightly around her fortune and holding it protectively against her sternum.

 

Obediently, he unfolded his own tiny slip, then gave a bark of a laugh and made a show of looking searchingly around the apartment before turning back to her with a shrug.

 

“Guess this is talking about you, then,” he said, holding out the paper to her.

 

Taking it from him, she read the words, rolling her eyes even as she felt a flush creeping up her neck, her cheeks heating.

 

_A very attractive person has an important message for you._

 

Looking back at her own fortune, she hesitated for a moment, then handed it over to him. “Then I guess this must be it.”

 

She watched his eyes scan the message, watched the faint flicker in his expression and knew that the simple words had hit him as hard as they’d hit her.

 

_If you have something good in your life, don't let it go!_

 

He gave a soft grunt, his fingers curling into a fist around the slip of paper.

 

“Thought it was gonna tell me to eat more Chinese food,” he said with a forced casualness. “That’s what most of these are, right?”

 

“Frank...” she murmured, but he cut in before she could say anything more.

 

“Better get that new lock on your door,” he said brusquely, pushing back his chair and standing, and she had to bite back her groan. With every step they took forward, it felt like they took two back. Sometimes three. Letting out a small sigh instead, she pocketed his fortune and followed him towards the door, knowing there was no point in pushing the topic. He'd shut her out again, and that was that.

 

It wasn’t until she’d almost reached his side that she suddenly realized-- he’d kept her fortune as well.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. My bad.

“Hey, Karen?” 

 

“Yeah?” she answered distractedly, still a little caught on the whole fortune cookie thing. Blinking, she turned to face him, but he wasn’t looking at her. In fact, when he spoke again, his eyes remained resolutely fixed on the contents of the duffel bag, never even flicking in her direction. Maybe he was just focused, or maybe he was distancing himself; she never really knew for sure with Frank. Most of the time, she figured it was pretty much a mix of both. 

 

Today, she suspected it was more of the latter. 

 

“This is probably gonna be a one-man job, if you had other stuff you wanted to do,” he said, and she nodded slightly, knowing him well enough to understand that-- despite his careful distance-- the suggestion was more his way of giving her an out, an excuse to have her own space for a while, rather than a brush-off. 

 

“Okay,” she said simply, then turned and headed for her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and shut her eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath. God, what the hell were they doing here, exactly? What did this whole goddamn dance even  _ mean _ ?

 

Running a hand through her hair, she moved into the bathroom, splashing her face and then pressing it into the comforting fluffiness of the towel, trying not to think, trying not to feel anything other than the simple enjoyment of a day off. Looking up at her reflection, she stared at herself for a long moment, then grimaced and turned away. Not only could she not turn off her feelings, she couldn’t even stop them from being written all over her damn face.

 

A minute or so later, she reached for the door handle, pausing for only half a beat before straightening her shoulders and pulling the door open, stepping purposefully out of the bedroom. Detouring past her desk, she spent a few moments rifling through the cluttered drawers, finding what she wanted shoved right up in the back. When she returned to the entryway, Frank was holding up the new lock mechanism and carefully marking out its spot on the door, his expression focused and his face in perfect profile. For a moment, she just admired the view, then lifted the polaroid camera and snapped a picture, the click and whirr of the emerging photo making him glance sharply over at her.

 

“You paparazzi now, Miss Page?”

 

She shrugged. “I like mementos.”

 

She didn’t say how terrified she was that these might be the last hours they would get to spend together. She didn’t say that she desperately wanted something to remember him by, something that wasn’t a mugshot or newspaper clipping, something that captured who he was with her. 

 

Who he was  _ to _ her.

 

“If someone saw that--” he began, but she cut him off.

 

“I’ll keep it in a safe place,” she assured him, then added mischievously, “Plus, with all this extra security, who’s going to be getting in?”

 

He smiled wryly at that. “Fair enough.”

 

Setting the camera aside, she tucked the still-developing picture carefully into her pocket, then turned for the kitchen.

 

“You want another beer?” she called over her shoulder, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle. 

 

“Maybe when I’m done, yeah,” he replied, and she grabbed a second bottle, bringing both back into the entryway with her, snagging the duffel with her free hand as she went past. Finding a spot out of his way-- but where she could watch the process without craning her neck-- she put down the duffel and settled herself on the floor beside it, her knees drawn up and the wall at her back. Setting his beer aside, she dug through the duffel and found the drill, and was already holding it up when he turned back to her. 

 

With a small smile on his lips, he silently traded her the lock mechanism before returning his attention to the door, placing the drill carefully against the wood and piercing through in controlled bursts. 

 

Taking a swig of her beer, she simply watched him work, handing him things now and then as required, but mostly just letting her thoughts drift. He was marking out the catch for the newly-installed lock when something suddenly occurred to her.

 

“So, what happens if there’s an emergency?”

 

He paused, frowning over his shoulder at her. “What?”

 

“Well, all this extra security is to ensure no one can kick in the door like you did, right?” she explained, lifting her eyebrows at him. “So what happens if there’s another emergency and  _ you _ need to get in?”

 

For a moment he just stared, clearly having no answer for her, so she provided one.

 

“There’s an extra key here,” she stated simply, holding up the packaging for the new lock. “And I have a spare for the other one too.”

 

Trying not to hold her breath, she watched him hesitate and look away, his jaw working as he stared at the locks.

 

“Just seems like the smartest way to handle it,” she added casually, and he gave a low grunt in reply, which she chose to take as agreement. 

 

“Good. I’ll get it,” she said, then rose from her spot to find the key in her desk. Once she had it in hand, she pulled the photo from her pocket-- now clear and developed, the sight of him captured there squeezing at her heart-- and tucked it away in her notebook, along with the tiny fortune slip he’d given her. Closing the drawer, she hooked the two keys together for him, and had already half-turned back to the entryway when something on the desktop caught her eye. Grinning, she reached over to grab it before heading back to her former spot by the door. 

 

A few moments later he handed her back the drill, then held out his hand for the hammer and chisel. Instead, she deposited the keys in his palm. 

 

Pausing, he looked down, forehead furrowing in a deep frown.

 

“What the hell is this?”

 

“Keys,” she replied innocently, looking up at him with wide eyes.

 

Pinching the keys in his thumb and forefinger, he held it up to her, showing her the fluffy pink pompom attached to the keychain.  “I meant this.”

 

“Had to make sure you wouldn’t lose them,” she clarified, fighting to keep a straight face. 

 

Looking back at the pompom, he made a disgusted sound-- but she could tell he was deliberately overplaying it just for her enjoyment, the gesture filling her with such a stupid glowing warmth that she could no longer keep the grin from spreading across her face. Pretending not to notice, he tucked the keys into his pocket with a quiet grumble, then held out his hand again, and this time she obediently placed the hammer and chisel in his grasp. 

 

Within just a few minutes he had the catch carved out and the new plate screwed securely in place, and he handed her back the drill before leaning in close to examine his work.

 

“Done already?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. 

 

“Should be,” he replied, then straightened. “One way to find out.” 

 

Pulling up his hood, he grasped the door handle and stepped over the threshold, his eyes meeting hers for a split second before the door closed between them. 

 

She was on her feet before she even consciously realized what was happening, the sudden pounding of her heart catching her off-guard. Hands clenched, she stared at the door, silently counting the seconds in her head. She’d barely reached four when she heard the scrape of a key entering a lock, and a moment later the new lock gave a click. The old lock followed suit almost immediately, and then the door swung slowly open, revealing Frank standing there with keys in hand.

 

“Looks like it works,” he said simply, returning the keys to his pocket, and she blew out a sharp breath. 

 

“That’s great, now get in here before one of my neighbors sees you,” she said quickly, reaching out and grabbing his hand, tugging him back inside before hastily shoving the door closed. The action brought them in unexpectedly close, the space between them suddenly all but eliminated, their faces no more than a mere handful of inches apart. 

 

For a moment the two of them simply stared wordlessly at each other in the narrow entryway, her hand still wrapped tightly around his. Then suddenly her own body betrayed her, her eyes flicking involuntarily to his lips-- though really, how could she  _ not _ look at them when they were  _ right there _ , when all she would have to do was lift a little on her toes and... 

 

She was half a second from just giving in and doing it when Frank cleared his throat and looked away, his body shifting back just slightly, but more than enough for her to get the message.

 

Except-- in that split second before he’d pulled away-- she could have sworn he’d swayed just a fraction closer.

  
Or maybe not.

 

Shit.

 

Abruptly releasing his hand, she shoved hers though her hair, then stepped back. 

 

“Guess you’ve earned that beer,” she said lightly, picking up both bottles from the floor and handing his over to him. 

 

Taking the bottle, he gave her a nod of thanks, her offer to grab him a bottle opener dying on her lips as he pulled a knife from his pocket and popped off the top with one smooth motion. Then he tipped his head back and took a long draught, her eyes instantly fixing on the movement of his throat before she forcibly pulled them away, looking over at the door instead, falling back on the first safe topic she could find.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever really helped build anything before,” she commented quietly, and he lowered the beer, giving her a small, encouraging smile.

 

“You did good.”

 

She smiled back, then glanced over at the door again, lips pursing in thought. “I feel like we need to commemorate it somehow.”

 

The answer came to her before the words were even fully out of her mouth, her mind already knowing exactly what she wanted to do.

 

“I have an idea. Give me your knife,” she said abruptly, holding out her hand.

 

He shot her a look of confusion, but didn’t question her, just pulled the knife back out of his pocket and held it out. Handing her mostly-empty beer to him in exchange, she stepped over to the door, running her fingers along the very outer edge of the casing, the slim part that faced the corner of the wall. 

 

“Perfect,” she said, then lifted the knife and dug its tip into the wood, biting her lip in concentration as she steadily carved out her initials.

 

“Vandal,” he teased, and she made a face at him, holding the knife out hilt-first.

 

“Alright, Mr Handyman. You’re up.”

 

He hesitated, and she made an impatient noise in her throat, instantly knowing his thoughts.

 

“Frank, it’s just your initials. The same initials that thousands of people have. Come on.”

 

Trading her the knife for the beers, he moved in, taking her spot in the corner while she shifted back-- though not nearly as far as she could have-- to watch over his shoulder. His technique was better than hers, a neat FC appearing below her own initials in just moments. Staring at it, she fleetingly imagined taking the knife back and scratching out a number 4 between their names like they were a pair of dumb middle-schoolers, smiling a little as she pictured what his reaction to that would be. 

 

Now finished, Frank lowered the knife and brushed away the spare splinters, his thumb moving first over his initials and then her own. When he straightened up a moment later, his shoulderblade bumped lightly against her chin, making her take a step back in surprise. She hadn’t even realized she’d drifted so close. 

 

Pocketing the knife, he turned to look down at her, the faintest smile curving his lips.

 

“You’re a bad influence, Karen Page.”

 

“What can I say, I’m a rebel,” she said with a shrug, handing his beer back to him. 

 

“Yeah, you are,” he agreed, a hint of something like pride in his voice. Then, he shook his head slightly, lifting his beer to his lips as he added, “But no-one out there seems to be able to see it.”

 

“You did,” she said simply, her eyes roving over his face, searching. “You saw through the act straight away.”

 

Looking down at her for a moment, he paused, then shrugged slightly and shifted his gaze to his beer as he spoke. “You weren’t afraid of me. You got up in the face of a mass murderer-- hell, one who’d shot at you, even-- and you did not give a single shit. And plus, gotta know that anyone who’s willing to break into a house on nothing more than a hunch is hardly gonna be an angel.”

 

“You’re not a mass murderer, Frank,” she said softly, her pride at his assessment of her overshadowed by sadness at his assessment of himself. Stepping in closer, she laid a hand on his arm, eyes fixed on his. “You’re just a man trying to get justice in a world that’s broken and corrupt. It’s not the same.” 

 

She could tell he didn’t believe her; he didn’t give her a response, instead just stared down at his beer bottle with a pained expression, his thumbnail picking at the edge of the label.

 

“You wanna know why I was never afraid of you?” she asked suddenly, her fingers tightening on his arm, forcing him to look up and meet her gaze. “Because the moment I looked at you in that hospital bed, it was just like...  I just…”

 

His eyes roamed over her face as she trailed off, watching her as she swallowed back the emotion rising in her throat, his voice hoarse as he prompted her. “You what?”

 

“I just knew,” she told him honestly, her words soft, her eyes never leaving his. “I knew that deep down, we really weren’t that different. That you might just be one of the few people who could ever really know me-- because like me, everyone who looked at you only saw what they wanted to see, not what was really there. But I saw you. I saw past your act, just like you saw past mine.”

 

For a moment, he simply looked down at her, and she swore she could see the yearning in his eyes, that same desperate need that she felt. Caught in it, in him, she swayed in a little closer--

 

And then he looked away, lifting his beer and finishing off what was left before holding it out to her.

 

“Thanks for the beer, Karen,” he said politely, his face back to that old unreadable mask that she’d thought she’d finally been free of, his sudden detachment hitting her like a slap to the face. Biting her lip, she took the bottle from him without a word, then turned and walked away, leaving him by the front door while she went back to the kitchen and put the bottles into the recycling with the others, her jaw clenched. 

 

Then, gripping the counter hard, she breathed in and out through her nose, fighting the urge to scream in frustration. One step forward, two steps back.  _ Again _ . 

 

“Karen,” he said from somewhere behind her, and she jumped, turning to find him standing just outside the kitchen, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides as he spoke again. “I gotta go.”

 

Panic flared, sudden and consuming, and she reflexively stepped towards him, her voice high with alarm. “No, it's barely afternoon, there's no-- I mean, you could at least stay for dinner?”

 

He shook his head. “I can't. I've already been away too long. I'm sorry.”

 

Her breath caught. “Frank--”

 

“I’ll take the bag with me,” he cut in, his eyes fixed somewhere near his feet. “Sorry about all the mess.”

 

In the midst of her shock and dismay, a thought suddenly struck her hard, sending a new kind of panic flooding though her. “God, was this... Was this all some kind of goodbye present?”

 

That made him look up. “What?”

 

“ _ This _ ,” she said sharply, gesturing between them. “Today. You being here, despite everything going on.”

 

“I'm here because I owed it to you,” he corrected, then added in a low voice, “And because I wanted to be.”

 

Only fractionally reassured, she looked him over, then bit her lip and looked away, trying not to cry. 

 

“But now you gotta go.”

 

His only response was a small nod, and before she was even aware of what she was doing, she’d crossed the space between them and thrown her arms around his neck, holding on for all she was worth.

 

Pressing her face to his shoulder, she clung to him, feeling his arms come up to encircle her in a tight hug. 

 

“Don't let go of this, okay?” she whispered desperately, knowing it might be her only chance to tell him. “Whatever happens out there, you hold on with both hands, and find a way to come back to me.”

 

He didn’t answer, just held her a little tighter, his face pressing against her hair. Then, all too soon, his arms slowly lowered from her back, and she made herself let him go, hating every inch that grew between them.

 

Stepping back, he cleared his throat. “Look after yourself, alright?”

 

“Frank--”

 

But he had already slung the duffel over his shoulder and turned away, his stride quick and determined as he passed through the front door without looking back, pulling it firmly shut behind him.

 

Her eyes squeezed shut, a tear slipping down her cheek before she roughly brushed it away. Sucking in a breath, she pressed a hand hard to her chest, as if the pressure could somehow ease the ache inside. But she already knew that nothing could; this was just how it felt, how it always had and always would feel, to love Frank Castle.

 

Eyes and throat burning, she turned towards her bedroom, wanting only to disappear into her bed, to wrap herself up in its warmth and pretend that he was still there beside her, that they were just two normal people who could do normal things without the world always forcing them apart.

 

Shuddering out a breath, she took a step-- and then she heard it.

 

The click of first one lock, then the other.

 

Whirling to face the door, she saw it start to swing inwards, and then suddenly there he was, standing silently on the other side of the threshold, his eyes locking with hers.

 

They didn’t speak; didn’t need to. 

 

They just moved.

 

He managed four swift steps to her three, the two of them meeting in the middle, staring across the thin, invisible line that stood between them. 

 

His eyes were stark, uncertain, and when he breathed her name she could hear the tremor in it, the question he barely dared to ask.

 

Her only reply was to drop her eyes to his lips, not one of the quick, surreptitious glances that had become such a habit for her, but a look that lingered, breathless, waiting.

 

Carefully, gently, he reached out, his palm settling at the back of her neck, goosebumps rippling across her skin as he finally lowered his head, his lips brushing softly across hers.

 

Her eyes fluttered closed, both her body and the world around her momentarily seeming to disappear, her mind only aware of the warmth of his hand at her neck, the gentle caress of his lips, and when that brief contact ended she unconsciously followed it, her chin tilting up in search of him. 

 

He didn’t run, like she half thought he would; instead, there was a smile curving his lips when he brought them back to hers, his kiss no longer nervous and chaste, but growing into something warm and assured and sweet and… well, okay, still chaste, his mouth moving over hers with a gentle tenderness that few would believe possible of a man like Frank Castle.

 

But that’s because they had never known the real him. 

 

After another moment, her body finally remembered how to move, her hands grasping at the front of his hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric just below his collarbones and drawing him further down into her as she deepened the kiss. 

 

His free hand settled at her lower back, fingers splayed wide as if he wanted to hold as much of her as possible, and she pressed closer, eliminating the space between them as she tilted her head, drawing his full bottom lip between hers and almost groaning a moment later at the fleeting heat of his tongue. He still held back, though; the kiss wasn’t so much fire as glowing embers, a warmth and emotion that promised the blaze to come.

 

She, however, had never been a particularly patient person. Releasing her grip on his hoodie, she lifted on her toes, sliding her hands up and over his shoulders to wrap her arms around his neck, her chest pressing against his, feeling the sharp stutter in his breathing as their bodies met. It was embers meeting gasoline; the kiss exploded with an eager heat, his mouth moving hungrily over hers, his rigid self-control momentarily vanishing as he claimed her with a fierce, passionate fire.

 

But this was Frank Castle, and restraint and self-denial always won out before long. All too soon she felt him easing back, gentling the kiss again until he finally drew his lips away from hers with an air of regret, his hand stroking against her back. She would have protested-- in fact she might actually have, she really wasn’t fully back in reality yet-- but he lowered his forehead to rest against hers, his breath hot against her tingling lips. 

 

“Karen, if something happens--” he began, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

 

She flinched, her post-kiss glow immediately extinguished and replaced by sharp, piercing fear. 

 

“Frank,  _ don't _ \--”

 

“No, you gotta know this,” he insisted, his voice growing firmer, stronger, and she could hear the desperation in it, the need for her to hear him. “I just-- if I don't make it back, you gotta know I held on with everything I had, okay? Never forget that.”

 

Clenching her eyes against the sudden burn of tears, she nodded slightly, her nose brushing his. “I won’t.”

 

For another breath he was still, the two of them sharing a final, silent moment before he shifted, cupping her face in his hands and pressing a firm kiss to her forehead. And then suddenly he was gone, her hands falling to her sides as he turned and scooped up the duffel, disappearing through the door before she even remembered how to move. 

 

Staring at the closed door, she pressed a shaking hand to her lips, her breath escaping in an unsteady rush.

 

Well, there was no denying it: she was well and truly fucked now. She’d fallen in love with a goddamn hurricane, and now she was either going to spend the rest of her life caught up in the chaos, or simply be left behind in the wreckage.

 

Right now, it felt a little like both.

 

With a heavy sigh, she turned her back on the door, still hoping he’d abruptly reappear even while knowing with certainty that he wouldn’t. Looking down, her attention fell on her own small pile of wreckage, the splintered mess of the old door jamb still sitting on the floor where she’d tossed it earlier. Letting out a despairing chuckle, she crouched down and picked up one of the jagged pieces, studying the damage Frank had inflicted upon it.

 

“Don’t think either of us are gonna recover from Frank Castle,” she murmured sardonically, then dropped it back on the pile and stood, turning toward the kitchen to fetch a trash bag. But before she had even taken a step, something made her pause. Glancing back down at the destroyed jamb for a moment, she turned and crossed over to the desk instead, picking up the whitewashed, decorative wicker wastepaper basket from beside it. Dumping out its contents onto the desk, she carried it over to the pile of broken wood and carefully placed each piece upright inside the basket, until they were all sticking haphazardly out of it like the random collection of pens that lived in the mug on her desk. 

 

Carrying the now-full basket across the room, she set it down beside her tv, then took a step back, and another, and again until her ankles hit her couch and she sank down onto it, staring at her creation, which sat there like a modern art representation of her life. 

 

It was still there almost two full weeks later, as she sat tensely on the couch, staring at the muted tv with phone in hand, the words along the bottom of the screen saying the exact same thing they’d said for the last three days. 

 

_ The Punisher: Still Alive And On The Run _

 

But they had nothing except sensationalism and shitty journalism. Thanks to the dashcam, they knew Frank hadn’t died all those months ago, but that meant nothing. That didn’t mean he was alive  _ now _ , and that was the only thing she wanted to hear.

 

Rubbing at the headache forming behind her eyes, she dialed Curtis’ number again. She didn’t bother with Madhani’s; every time she tried to get through she was told by some increasingly snotty secretary that Madhani was unable to take calls due to unexpected leave. 

 

She hadn’t been a journalist long, but she still knew enough to know that unexpected leave was code for ‘almost dead’. So she called Curtis, just like she’d done repeatedly over the last few days, because at least Curtis answered. 

 

He never had any news for her, but as someone who also loved Frank Castle, he understood. 

 

She was still waiting for the call to connect when she heard it. A tiny sound, a scrape and a click, and half of her immediately wanted to dismiss it as nothing, because that’s probably all it was.

 

But the other half knew exactly what that sound was.

 

Reflexively hanging up, she listened hard. She’d imagined hearing that noise so many times already, but…

 

But then the second lock clicked.

 

She was on her feet before she was even consciously aware she’d moved, her body already carrying her halfway to the front door before it slowly began to swing open. 

 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed for this not to be a dream, another trick of her desperate subconscious. _ Not again, not again, not again _ \--

 

For a moment there was silence, and then two exhausted, rasping syllables.

 

“Karen.” 

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished at last. Thanks for coming on the journey (and putting up with that big bump on the way!)   
> And who knows, I might be back for another round once I finally watch S2. Sounds like it needs a bit of a Kastle infusion...
> 
> Anyway, if you have thoughts, I'd love to hear them :)


End file.
